Millenium
by handymelon
Summary: How it all might have begun. Albert, Mickey, Stacie and Ash become a crew for the first time, and undertake a to con a Premiership football club. Don't own the characters, just count them all as friends!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Do Us Part**

It had been raining all afternoon and the wind was chilly for early May,

driving tourists and shoppers home and leaving the streets almost empty by six. A cool breeze accompanied the rain along Charing Cross Road, flapping the bright yellow banners which advertised the Millennium Experience in the controversial Dome. The clouds were low enough for light from the windows of the Seven Bells in Bateman Street to be seen as a faint golden glow, and the impression of welcoming warmth had drawn several disparate groups of patrons through its door.

At the bar were the regulars - a couple of big blokes wearing gold chains and shirts open wide at the collar, who were looking at the day's racing results in the paper and discussing tips with Pete the barman, and an elderly gent in a trilby hat with a small terrier dog under his stool. In the leather-look seats by the fire a group of five women were sipping spritzers and sharing two bags of crisps between them. A crowd of city types had taken over the central area, jackets slung over the backs of their chairs as they sank pints and shorts and exchanged work gossip, and the pool-table had been colonised by a gang of lads who were going to a mate's party and had stopped off for a quick one on the way.

If anyone had asked them to describe the man sitting on his own at the corner table, few of them could have done so. Pete could have testified that he'd drunk a great deal. The lad who cleared the empties off his table might have noticed the mound of dog-ends in the ashtray, and the girl who'd tripped over the leg of his chair on her way to the Ladies would possibly have remembered the bright blue of his eyes as he'd glanced up in response to her apology. Otherwise, he was unremarkable and unremarked. He'd been sitting in the same chair for several hours, staring at an envelope on the table.

"_I wanted to bring you this myself." June Morgan stood by the table in the Seven Bells and looked steadily at her husband. "I didn't want you to get it in the post."_

_He looked at the envelope in her hand, and then raised his eyes to hers. "We don't have to do this, June. Look, sit down, willya?"_

_June sat down on the edge of the chair. "Yes, we do have to do this. Don't make it any harder than it has to be, eh?"_

"_Listen!" He leaned forward a little, clasping her fingers. "I've been thinking. I'll pack it in. For good. I can get a job in IT – systems manager, something like that. I know a bloke in … what?"_

_June was smiling, shaking her head. "How long have you been out? Three months. How many jobs have you done? Four."_

"_Look, they were favours. I owed a few people…"_

"_Yeah, I know. And what happens when it's three weeks into your new job, and one of those people you owe things to rings you up wanting a favour, eh? No, love," as he opened his mouth again, "it won't work."_

"_June…"_

"_Please, love. Don't."_

_The pain in her voice made him wince and he bowed his head._

_June drew a long breath. "I should never have let you try to change, should I? You can't, any more than I can. We are who we are, and we've had great times. But I can't do it any more. Not like this. It used to be fun, but it's not the same any more – not since…" she broke off, searching for the words. "It's the nights I can't stand. Lying in bed wondering if you're coming home, or if someone's kicked your head in - or if you're in a police cell somewhere. Thinking about what might have been, if… I can't do it any more. I love you, I truly do, but I need my life back. And so do you. We need a fresh start, for both our sakes."_

"_Yeah." The fight went out of him and he gently released her hand. He didn't look up. _

_She placed the letter on the table and stood up. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart," she said, kissed him on the top of his bowed head, and was gone._

Five hours, ten pints and God alone knew how many smokes later Ashley Morgan was still sitting in the Seven Bells, an empty glass at his elbow, staring at the envelope which held the end of his marriage. With slow, precise movements he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and discovered the box to be empty. This presented him with a quandary – he needed a fresh packet, and that would mean standing up. Achieving the vertical position by means of a firm grip on the table, he was able to move from there to the bar via several different items of furniture. Once this goal had been attained, he paused, grateful for its support and unclear what his next move should be.

Pete, from his vantage point behind the bar, had been eyeing Ash's progress across the room with a mixture of sympathy and trepidation and now came across to him. "On your way home, Ash?"

Concentrating hard, Ash thought about the question. He hadn't been intending to leave the pub when he originally stood up, but having got this far it did seem a logical conclusion. "I need to pay up," he said.

"I've shoved it on the tab, mate. Pay me later in the week. I know you're good for it."

Ash thought about this, too, and then nodded carefully. He patted his pockets, frowned, and then looked around in a questioning manner.

"What's up?" asked Pete. "Lost something?"

"Left it back there…" Ash gestured vaguely at his table and then grabbed at the bar for support as he overbalanced and teetered slightly.

"I'll get it," said Pete hurriedly, not relishing the thought of watching Ash negotiate his way back across the room. He nipped out from behind the bar, retrieved the envelope and pushed it into Ash's shirt pocket, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he did so. "All right, mate?"

"I'll do. Gonna get a taxi…"

"Percy'll run you home, mate. He's got his cab round the corner. Oi – Perce – you'll give Ash a lift, yeah?"

The slimmer of the two racing enthusiasts heaved himself down from his bar-stool. "No bother," he said equably. "Come on, mucker, let's get you home." He slung a companionable arm around Ash's shoulders and began to steer him doorwards. "Don't worry," he added in passing to Pete as they began their unsteady progress, "I got me instructions."

Pete watched them go, then fumbled in his trouser pocket and produced the cash June had given to him on her way out. "That's for him," she'd said, jerking her head at the solitary figure in the corner, "and can you get Perce or Jacko to see him back to the flat? And put him to bed? Only we just got divorced. Thanks, love."

It hadn't seemed right to put the fifty in the till with Ash sitting there, but he did so now, with a sigh and a shake of the head.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Apprentice

Chapter 2: The Apprentice

Another bar, on another day.

Michael Stone sat in the corner booth facing the door, sipping his drink occasionally and keeping his hands occupied to hide his tension. His long fingers shuffled and re-shuffled the cards; from time-to-time an extra twist of the right finger at the right time would send one card flying to the front or the back of the pack. He focussed entirely on the cards, not thinking about looking at the time, and especially not thinking about where Albert was or how it might be going. This didn't stop him from glancing up every time the door opened. The first three times were people leaving. The fourth time a pair of young girls entered giggling together, and giggled even more when they caught the good-looking young man apparently staring at them. The fifth time the door opened, Albert Stroller walked in, elegant in a long raincoat, and Mickey instinctively checked his watch. Bang on schedule. Good old Albert.

Unhurried, as always, Albert ordered at the bar and then came across to the booth. Keeping his cool, still keeping his cool, and still carefully not thinking about how it had gone, Mickey waited as the older man removed his coat, carefully shook it and laid it over the back of the seat, sat down, adjusted his cufflinks, ran his hands through his silvering hair and took an appreciative sip of single malt Scotch. After a lengthy pause, during which Mickey began to seriously wonder whether his head might explode, Albert said, quietly: "We're on."

_Mickey leapt up, bellowed "YES!!", punched the air in the manner of an FA cup goal-scorer and did a couple of victory laps of the bar, ending by sliding to his knees in front of Albert's seat_

Mickey nodded. "Great," he said. "What's next?"

"You'll work the inside. You're ready," Albert took another appreciative drink. "And I think we have our in. As to the rest – this is going to be our first truly big job, Michael. We're going to need manpower."

"Okay, that makes sense. Do we need money up-front?"

"Some. But not too much, if we do it right." Albert picked up the newspaper and folded it back to the front page. "Before we go any further – you know what you're getting into. If you want out, this is the time to say so, while it's still just you and me."

"Want out? No way!" For one moment the cool mask slipped, and Mickey's dark eyes burned with passionate intensity. "This is the real thing, Albert. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"Very well, then." With a smile for his apprentice's enthusiasm, Albert drew a leatherbound notebook from his jacket pocket and settled his spectacles on his nose. "One moment … yes, here we are." He slid the spectacles down to look at Mickey over the top of the rims. "I've spent the afternoon cementing my relationship with this guy…" he flicked a photo clipped from a magazine across the table "who rejoices in the sobriquet of 'Fat Freddie'."

Mickey picked up the picture between finger and thumb. "What, the agent? He manages Premiership players, yes?"

"He certainly does. Of particular interest to us, he's the manager of this young gentleman." Albert drew a newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat and unfolded it at the sports pages. "Darren Duncan."

"The United player?" Mickey's eyebrows shot up. "He's our mark?"

"He's our in. I'm hoping to travel up the food chain a little." Albert sat back in his seat, pleased to see Mickey slightly taken aback. "I said big, I meant big." Pushing his glasses back into position he looked down at his notes. "We have several routes to take with this guy. He's young, he's arrogant, he likes a bet, he likes the ladies, follows the dogs and the horses, plays golf, has a wide circle of unpleasant acquaintances and a private bar in his basement which is infamous for gatherings of a less than savoury nature. He has more skeletons in his closet than Sweeney Todd, he's used to buying himself out of trouble and he's dangling there – rich, dishonest and ready for the picking." Albert took off his spectacles and looked across the table. "Your thoughts?"

Mickey turned the notebook round and read down the page. He knew that Albert already had a preferred way in – this was his way of checking that he and Mickey were in accord. "He's arrogant," Mickey began, "we can use that. It should be easy to issue him some sort of challenge – a bet - and get him to take it. And he won't want any bad publicity, which will make it easier for us to be sure he won't go to the police." He glanced up and Albert nodded encouragingly. "The dogs and the horses would cost us a lot up front, and we don't have much working capital at the moment. Women – I'm not sure how happy I'd be with that. I've heard stories about this guy, and he sounds unpleasant. I'd want that to be a second option. And I think we avoid the infamous parties and the friends. We don't want to work our way into his mob and then find we can't cut ourselves out."

"I have a feeling," Albert added delicately "that you may not be … uh … from his usual social circle in any event. He's a little right-wing, as I understand it."

Mickey, who dealt with racists by being confident that he was usually better-looking and more intelligent than they were, nodded contemptuously. "Which leaves us…" he ran his finger down the list and stopped with a decisive tap on the page by his selection "…with golf. Do you play?"

"No!" Albert's eyes were alight with the thrill of the chase. "But I know a man who knows a man who does."

"…and we'll have to set this up on a private course", Mickey said, "so that's going to need a lot of overheads, which we don't have…"

"Indeed." Albert drew a brochure from his pocket. "That's where this comes in."

"The Lansdowne Park," Mickey read aloud. "This is a cut above, Albert."

"It will be, when it opens," Albert said. "The owner has a gala day planned for the beginning of August. At the moment, he's in Montserrat, well out of our way, and as his valued friend I have his permission to use the course any time I like. So with the right preparation we can avail ourselves of his premises and set up our store."

Mickey nodded and then hesitated. "There was something else I wanted to speak to you about, if you've got time."

"Of course." Albert settled himself more comfortably in his seat. "We have a few hours before I need to make any more calls. Although, before we begin, a dutiful student always knows when it's his round…"

Mickey grinned and stood up, stretching his long frame. "What will it be, oh great man of learning?"

"I'll have another Scotch – no ice." Albert reached out for Mickey's pack of cards fractionally too late; Mickey scooped them off the table and into his shirt pocket. "You don't trust me?" Albert's face wore an expression of injured innocence.

"You've taught me too well." Mickey headed for the bar. Behind him, Albert quietly produced a second deck of cards, gave them a quick shuffle and tucked them back out of sight. Mickey's education was ongoing, as always.

"Scotch with no ice, please, Eddie, and a vodka and tonic,"

The barman nodded. "Coming up, Mick. That'll be four-fifty."

Mickey dug into his pocket reluctantly. "It'd be a lot more straightforward if we could open a tab, Eddie," he suggested. "We could settle up monthly, and..."

" 'Ey!" Eddie's Liverpudlian twang became more marked in his irritation. "I've told youse this before. No tabs for grifters. I've been in this game long enough. You'll run up a bill the size of the National Debt and then _he_…" he indicated Albert, who was obliviously scanning the paper, "will charm me into letting you get away with it. Not happenin'. I don't mind you hangin' about in the bar, but you're not bloody doing it for free, all right?" He wagged a firm finger in Mickey's direction.

"Okay, okay!" Mickey held up his hands in defeat and slid the cash across the bar. "Just an idea." Drinks in hand, he headed back to the table.

"He'll never go for it," Albert said as Mickey set the drinks down.

"I don't suppose so. But it doesn't hurt to try once in a while."

Albert put the paper aside as Mickey resumed his seat. "Cards?" he enquired, producing the pack from his coat pocket.

"Okay." Mickey sat forward. "But I'm not playing you for money. I can't afford it…"

"So – what did you want to ask me?" Albert enquired a little while later, when there was a comfortable pile of matchsticks at his side of the table and a rather smaller one on Mickey's side.

Mickey looked at the cards in his hand and laid them face down on the table, considering his words with care. "You've heard me mention Stacie Monroe?"

"Your unlucky young lady friend whose husband absconded with her savings?"

"That's her. I'd like to bring her on board."

Albert's eyebrows rose a little. "You think she's good enough?"

"She's got something unique, Albert. And she's had some experience. Her very unlovely ex used to run a badger game when his luck was out at the poker tables. She learns fast, she's clever, and I think we could use her."

"And you also think she could use a little help," Albert added, looking steadily at his lieutenant.

Mickey returned his gaze. "I do. She's had a rough time. She doesn't talk about it much, but she's lonely and she's low. It's time she got a chance with a better hand."

"I'll need to see her"

"I can call her – she can come over."

Albert nodded. "No promises, mind." He looked down at his cards. "I'll call."

"Two pair – fours and Queens." Mickey's voice had the air of a beaten man.

"Straight," Albert said contentedly, laying down his cards and raking in the bulk of the matchsticks. "You can call the young lady before you buy me another."

"Okay, I surrender!" Mickey pushed the last of his matchsticks across the table and threw down his hand with resignation. "You've cleaned me out and I bow to your superiority".

An air of satisfaction was now radiating from Albert, whose love of winning was possibly his only real vice. "I suspect you've been softening me up," he said as he swept the matchsticks into the ashtray and collected the cards together.

"I wish I were," Mickey held out his hand for the pack and then a startled expression crossed his face as Albert tucked it away in his jacket. Mickey's hand moved to his shirt pocket where his own carefully prepared pack still resided unused and he made a small noise of exasperation – outplayed on both counts. "Is there ever a time when you don't play to win?"

"What would be the point?" Albert asked in all innocence.

Mickey shook his head, grinning, and then looked up as the door opened. "Here she is!" he said, and stood to catch her attention.

Every male eye was drawn toward her as she strode across the room – tall and slender, with porcelain skin and a waterfall of thick dark hair that rippled across her shoulders. Mickey reached out to give her an affectionate hug and she kissed his cheek warmly. Albert rose with exquisite courtesy and offered her his hand, which she took with a smile. Close to she was devastating – liquid dark eyes, brows which arched like swallows' wings and high cheekbones that gave her face the cast of an Art Nouveau cameo.

"Stacie, this is Albert," Mickey said. "Albert – Stacie Monroe"

"Charmed, my dear." Albert, still holding her hand, gave the smallest of bows and was rewarded with a second smile.

"Mr Stroller – Mickey talks a lot about you." Her voice was low and rich.

"The good parts are all true," Albert said. "Won't you sit down?" He indicated the bench seat and she slid into the place opposite his. Mickey grabbed a stool and perched on it at the head of the table. "Now," Albert began, "Michael speaks very highly of you, and tells me you want to be part of my new crew." He regarded her with a keen gaze. "I trust his judgement, and that's why you're here now, but I want to hear your side of the story. So. Tell me why _you_ think it should happen."

She folded her hands on the table in front of her in a businesslike fashion. "I would give you something extra. I can get into places you can't go, give you an angle that an all-male crew wouldn't have. I can work the inside or the outside, I can think on my feet and I've got experience. And I'm used to handling large sums of cash. My ex-husband was a poker professional and I was his banker. I could do the same for you."

Albert nodded approvingly. "Good practical common-sense," he said. "And you're right on all counts. But there's more to it than that. Can you play for the love of the game and the joy of winning?"

She squared her shoulders, ready for the challenge. "Try me!"

"Okay." Albert hesitated for a second and then leaned forward and lowered his voice a little. "Get us all a drink for free."

Stacie gave the slightest of nods, and then leapt to her feet and cried: "Oh, that's _marvellous_! Thank you _so_ much!" She hugged Mickey and then grabbed Albert's hand and shook it excitedly. "You won't regret this, Mr Stroller. Thank you, thank you! Let me buy us all a drink to celebrate!"

Sashaying across to the bar she turned a dazzling smile on Eddie, who leapt to attention in his eagerness to be of service. "Hi – could I have a bottle of champagne, please? And three glasses? Thanks _so_ much – that's wonderful!"

The bottle and glasses appeared at the bar on a silver tray, which earned the blushing Eddie a small cry of delight. "Oh look – how lovely! Just let me find my purse…" she rummaged in her bag, then her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, God – I've only got a tiny bit of cash on me. Darling - " Eddie almost collapsed as she turned the full power of a 100-watt beam upon him " – could I _possibly_ open a tab? I'll settle it tomorrow. I'm _such_ an idiot!"

"Yeah, yeah – no trouble at all. That's fine."

She patted his cheek with her hand. "You're an absolute sweetheart."

Picking up the tray she returned to the table.

Albert looked at Mickey. Mickey looked at Albert. Stacie looked at them both.

"I like her style," Albert said to Mickey. "Pour the lady a drink, Michael. And then I think we should get lunch to cement the partnership." As Mickey set to work on the champagne cork, Albert turned to Stacey. "Welcome to the family!" he said, holding out his hand.

She took it, flushing with delight. "Thank-you, Mr Stroller. You really won't regret it, I promise."

"I'm quite sure I won't, my dear. And call me Albert, won't you? Whoa!" He broke off, laughing as the champagne cork popped out and Mickey poured three glasses of Eddie's finest vintage. Albert swept up his glass and raised it to Stacie. "To the future!" he said.

As they all three clinked glasses, the watching Eddie developed a slightly anxious expression. What exactly, he wondered, had he just agreed to?

"That was marvellous", Stacie declared as she laid down her spoon, leaving only the faintest scrapings of dark chocolate at the bottom of her bowl. "Will you excuse me? Back in a minute."

"She's a good girl." Albert told Mickey as they watched the slim figure head across the room. "You made the right call. Well done." He drained his coffee cup and discreetly signalled the waiter for the bill. "I have that meeting to attend, so I'll head out. I'll be back at the bar by five at the latest."

Mickey, glowing inwardly at the praise, nodded. "I'll see you there. I'm going to see Stacie home and then we'll meet at the hotel later."

"Excellent." Albert looked up as the waiter appeared, and took the bill from the proffered tray. "Thank you very much." The waiter inclined his head politely and glided away. Albert produced his wallet and flicked through an alarmingly thick wad of notes, drawing out several. "Oh, Michael – I'll need that address"

Mickey rummaged in the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a slip of paper. As he was about to pass it across to Albert, he hesitated and drew back his hand. "Albert – are you sure this is the way to go? He's been off the scene for a long time. The work he_ has_ been doing was with the wrong sort of people. And the word is he's not in good shape. Are you positive he's who we want for this?"

Albert nodded. "Without a doubt," he said simply.

"He wasn't easy to find. If he won't come?"

"He'll come. It may take me some time, but I know him of old. I have some things I need to work through with him." Albert took the paper from Mickey's fingers and patted him on the forearm. "Have faith in your mentor." The expression on Mickey's face was unconvinced, but Albert firmly ignored it and rose politely to his feet as Stacie reappeared. "I'll see you later, my dear." With a jaunty little wave he departed to pay the bill, and was followed a few moments later by Stacie and a still-frowning Mickey.

_Not until a letter arrived from his bank some days later did the manager of a certain exclusive dining establishment realise that one of his customers had settled a large proportion of their bill with fake fifty-pound notes. Despite combing back through the receipts, the staff were unable to pin down the culprit; the mixing of genuine and counterfeit notes had meant that it was impossible to trace exactly which bill had been settled in this unsatisfactory way. Albert Stroller could have explained to them that basic misdirection was one of the first rules of the con, but as he rather enjoyed an occasional meal in that particular restaurant he let them remain in ignorance. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: On The Ropes**

Whoever was ringing the doorbell, they'd been there for several minutes, and the whole situation was turning into a contest of wills. Ash had ignored the bell the first five or six times, but it was still ringing – short bursts, long-drawn-out buzzes, sequences and patterns. It was the steady, one-second interval rhythm that finally cracked him.

"Piss off!" he bellowed at the door

"Nope," replied a disembodied voice, and the rhythm continued.

"PISS OFF!"

No response this time, just the maddening, insistent sound; its irritating qualities magnified tenfold once he'd dignified it with a response. The ringer had the upper hand now, and it was only a matter of time before the door was yanked open.

"Are you _trying_ to get a smack in the mouth?"

Albert Stroller cocked his head slightly to look up at Ash, taking in the greasy hair hanging round his forehead, the crumpled clothing, unshaven stubble and bleary eyes.

"Good afternoon, my boy. It's been a while. I heard you were back amongst us, and I've been meaning to look you up. I sent you a couple of messages – I'm assuming you didn't get them. In any event, I didn't receive a reply. You're a hard man to find these days."

Ash wasn't sure how it had happened – people seldom were – but somehow, while Albert was talking, he'd opened the door wide enough to allow the older man to walk past him into the flat. And now Albert was standing in front of him, looking him up and down with sharp brown eyes which held a mixture of exasperation and concern.

"Look, I'm not trying to be funny, Albert, but I really don't want to talk at the moment, so…"

"I'm afraid I do." replied Albert mildly, looking around the devastation that had once been a cosy flat.

"Yeah, well - with respect -"

Albert ignored the defensive tone of Ash's voice and closed the door with a decisive slam. "When did you last eat?"

Caught off-guard, Ash floundered in mid-bluster. "I … well, I dunno. I had a pizza…" he stared across at the kitchen door as though it might provide him with inspiration. "Yesterday, I think. Or might have been Thursday. Look, Albert…"

Albert reached up to put firm hands on the younger man's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "This isn't good, Ash." He was using his _Albert's in control here _voice. "This whole place smells like an old ashtray and there are enough beer bottles around to supply a brewery. And I want to talk to you. Go scrub up and change. I'm taking you out for lunch -" he consulted his heavy silver wristwatch "– or possibly afternoon tea."

"But…"

Albert held up an admonishing finger and Ash's protest was cut off. The finger swivelled in the direction of the bathroom door. "Shower. And a shave," came the crisp order. "Fresh clothes. Food. And then we talk."

Defeated, Ash vanished through the door and a few seconds later came the sound of running water. With a small nod of satisfaction, Albert retrieved clean clothing from the bedroom, which he handed in through the bathroom door at an opportune moment.

When Ash emerged, still pale and bloodshot-eyed but shaved and brushed-up as instructed, Albert was waiting by the front door. "That's better. Now – food. And as a special concession, I'm prepared to make it your choice of venue."

"Fair enough." Ash picked up his jacket from the back of the sofa and straightened his shoulders. "I know a place where they do a decent bacon sandwich."

Two large sandwiches and most of a pint mug of tea later, Ash felt sufficiently restored to enjoy the sight of fastidious, elegant Albert drinking coffee in a greasy spoon caff in Walthamstow. Far too well-mannered to make his feelings obvious Albert nevertheless radiated discomfort, his natural environment being the better kind of gentleman's club.

"You look much improved," Albert observed and then added, "We were all sorry to hear the news."

"Yeah, well." Ash was not a man who discussed his own feelings fluently at the best of times, and at this moment two syllables and a shrug were all he was equipped to offer on the subject of matrimony. Several seconds passed, during which Albert watched him prepare, examine and discard several possible options. In the end, Ash said simply, "Thanks."

"Not a problem. And I must confess my motives today aren't entirely altruistic." Albert paused for a moment. "I have a proposition for you, if you're interested."

"What – a job?"

"A _big_ job." Albert accompanied his emphasis with a significant look.

Startled, Ash instinctively glanced around the room to check the positions of their fellow-diners and lowered his voice a little as he responded "You putting a crew together?"

Albert, watching Ash's reaction carefully, gave an almost imperceptible nod. Ash blew out his cheeks and sat back, running a hand through his hair.

"I dunno, Albert. I'm rusty. I haven't done much since I came out."

"I know. If you're done, will you walk with me? Hear me out?"

Ash drained his mug and stood up by way of reply. Albert paid for their meal and the two of them were soon strolling along the street in the late spring sun.

"I got to thinking, not long ago," Albert began after a few moments of companionable silence. "I'm not getting any younger, and…"

"Gerroff! What are you, fifty-three, fifty-four?"

"Fifty-eight next birthday. Too old to do some of the things I used to do. Old enough to be thinking about my legacy, what folks might say about me when I'm gone."

"Bloody 'ell, Albert…"

"No, no, no – not in a morbid way. I'm thinking about grifters in the future, looking back, discussing the long con game, the masters of the art." He led Ash through the gateway of a small park and paused in the shade of a tree. A group of children were playing on a climbing-fame a few yards away, watched by their mothers, but otherwise the park was quiet and there was no-one in earshot. He sat down on a bench in the shade. "I want to be up there, Ash." He spread his hands as though framing a portrait in the air. "I want them to talk about me the way they talk about Bernie Cornfeld and Frank Abagnale. This is my big push. It's a new century. I'm going for the big shot. And I want you with me."

"Bloody 'ell!" repeated Ash, and fell silent for a few moments, his arms folded across his chest. A breeze ruffled the leaves of the tree above them. "I dunno…" Albert waited, letting his companion's thoughts move at their own pace. At last, Ash shook his head. "I haven't done a proper job in over two years, Albert. I'm not up to it."

"Let me ask you something," Albert said into the little silence that followed. "If you walk away from this today, where will you go? Back to pulling two-bit jobs for lowlives who don't deserve you? Back to the flat for a few more beers and then a few more after that? Back to jail?"

"Don't do this, Albert!" Ash's voice was unusually sharp.

Albert was remorseless. "I'm offering you a way out, Ash."

"What if I don't want it?"

"What's your alternative?"

"Leave it, will you?" Ash jerked to his feet and walked away a few steps, hands jammed into his jacket pockets.

"August fifteenth, nineteen ninety-three," Albert said loudly to his back. "Pete at the Seven Bells gave me your number, and you fixed the cameras for us in that casino."

"Harry Black's place. Twenty grand. I haven't forgotten," Ash said without turning his head.

"Mickey was just a kid then. But we did the hotel manager in Surrey who had all the Chinese guys working in his kitchens … and Crazy Larry, the guy with the strip joint down in Brighton…"

"Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all," finished Ash.

"I'm saying, you have a talent. We work well together. We built something that really had it – you, me and Mickey. Then you married June. That was a good day," Albert remembered a blur of sharp suits and floral frocks, a flustered registrar and a great deal of laughter. "It was all great. And then suddenly, we get radio silence. Nothing for a year. Eventually I hear that you're doing a twelve-month stretch, six months left to go. Mickey placed calls for you at the prison. I left you a message with Pete for when you came out. We hear you're working with Tommy Collier, Ted Kane, penny-ante operators, but you don't get back to us. What's the deal?"

Ash, his infrequent anger already burnt out, came slowly back to the bench and slumped down, looking weary. "It's nothing."

"I leave you another message with Pete. No reply. I have to send Mickey asking around to find where you're living, what your number is. I call your place, you don't answer. When I finally come round, I have to fish you from the bottom of a bottle to get you to come talk business. This is not you, Ash, and this is not nothing. This is more than just a bad reaction to a set of divorce papers. What is it you're not saying?" When he was met with silence, the faintest edge came into Albert's voice. "Has somebody got something on you, is that it? Tell me who, we'll work something out. Mickey can…"

"It's nothing like that. It – it's complicated." Ash groped for the words he needed. "I keep trying to think of an answer I know ain't there."

"Not everything has an answer, my boy. That doesn't mean you carry it on your own."

"It's not your problem, Albert. I don't…"

"Was it your problem at the Royale?"

_The lights are low, the smoke's thick in the air. Albert's weaving his magic, talking the talk. Ash is at the next table, a leather briefcase by his feet, ready to make the switch. Mickey's in the car, ready for a quick getaway. Raised voices, suddenly, and Ash sees the big guy with the gold tooth grab Albert's wrist. Albert's still talking, working on a way out, calculating whether he can duck fast enough to avoid the punch he knows is coming, when Ash lurches up to the table. "Everybody all right? All having a good time? Eh? Whoa – sorry, sorry!" A sideways stagger and the table is over; drinks, cards, cash tumble onto the sticky carpet. Chaos erupts, fists fly, Ash is in the middle of it all. Albert twists free and backs up. Gold Tooth, cheated of his prey, has grabbed a table leg and swings it like a club. Albert shouts a warning and Ash hears, starts to turn, but too late. The table leg smashes into the side of his head and he falls…_

Ash raised a hand to the spot, feeling the slight dent in his skull which marked the old fracture. Albert said, quietly, "Friends don't stand by and watch a friend hurting. Friends wade in and help."

Another silence fell. Ash stared across the sunny grass at the playground, where two little boys were fighting over a swing. The breeze made dappled shadows over their heads. Albert waited, patient as time, knowing his man; knowing his last words had sunk home.

At last, Ash spoke. "June got pregnant."

Whatever Albert had been expecting, it wasn't that. It took all his self-control, honed over years of playing the role which suited the moment, to stay still and say nothing.

"Couple of years after the wedding. Out of the blue. That's why I dropped out of the scene. E both wanted to go straight. It seemed the right thing to do, you know? Didn't want the kid growing up without someone around. Hardly saw my old man – when he wasn't in the nick he was on the run. So we talked about the future. I thought – I didn't want to risk it. I got an interview for a job as a security guard, regular pay. We didn't want to say anything at first, you know – we wanted to be sure. So, I was going to call you, explain…" He broke off.

"What happened?" Albert prompted gently.

"The baby died," Ash kept his eyes fixed on the concrete at his feet. "We went down the clinic about five months in, for a routine check, and there was no heartbeat. Just – gone. And we thought, after a bit, we thought, okay, we'll try again. We were unlucky, was all. It'll happen for us again. But it didn't. It never did. And I'd started the job with the security firm. I was going to ring you, but I didn't know what to say…" he shrugged helplessly and scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "And then Tony Kane came round to where I was working and offered me six months' wages to look the other way. Which, looking back, wasn't the best decision I ever made." Ash drew a long breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. "June asked for the divorce while I was inside, and I thought, fair enough. When I come out, we'll talk. I'll convince her we can start again, I'll do it right this time. I'll fix it…" His voice tailed off and he rummaged in his jacket for his cigarettes. "She's tougher than I ever was."

"She's a wise woman." Albert said. "She knows who you are, and she's set you free. Left you with a choice. Which is what I'm going to do." He reached into his pocket and produced a lighter, with which he lit Ash's cigarette, then put the lighter away and brought out a business card and a gold pen. "This is my number at the hotel," he said, scribbling on the back of the card and handing it to Ash. "Call me. I'll hold the job till you're ready."

Ash took the card with a hand that trembled slightly, looked at the number, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. Albert stood up and rested a hand briefly on his friend's shoulder. "Some things you can't fix," he said gently. "You just have to leave them as they are, and get used to them being there."

Ash watched him walk down the slope to the path. He looked across at the playground, where the mothers were marshalling up their children to go home. Then he drew a long draught of smoke into his lungs, nipped out the end of the cigarette, tossed it into the bin by the bench and shouted: "Albert!" The dapper figure on the path paused and turned as Ash rose from the seat and walked down to meet him. "Is Mickey your inside man?" Ash asked.

Albert nodded.

"Has he turned out as good as you thought he would?"

"Better."

"Where've you asked him to wait?"

"At the bar."

Ash nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets. "Off we go, then…"

As they fell into step, Albert said: "I meant what I said. About waiting till you were ready."

"I know." Ash glanced back over his shoulder at the empty playground.

As they climbed into the black cab that Albert had summoned, Ash reflected that he hadn't just been roped. Somewhere along the way he'd been brought down and hogtied. But it had been done gently – with love, even - and he felt pretty good about it on the whole.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Elements

Chapter 4: Elements

There should be a mystical happening to mark this day, thought Albert as he slid into his seat in the corner booth. Fireworks should erupt from the bar, or a fanfare of trumpets should sound, or an unearthly golden glow illuminate the tableau. This should be the start of something great, something momentous. He felt it in his soul. Instead, the occasion was marked by an atmosphere which at best might be described as awkward, and at the worst slightly hostile.

Mickey had been standing at the bar when Albert and Ash entered; when Eddie's open-mouthed expression prompted him to turn round he found himself face-to-face with his former associate. Ash gave him a self-conscious nod.

"Alright, Mickey?"

"Ash." Mickey returned the nod coolly.

Albert sat down, giving them some space. At least they were here in the same room together, which was something Albert hadn't been sure would happen. He'd give it time. Each of these very different individuals had strengths which complemented the other.

_Mickey - vibrant, charismatic, brilliant, dangerous. He's got looks, charm and an almost ferocious ambition, tempered by a powerful sense of fair play. _

_Ash - steady, dependable and fiercely loyal. He's practical and skilful, his sometimes diffident manner and easy good humour cloaking a razor-sharp brain. Together, Albert knows, they're the foundation of the perfect team. _

"So – what's it been?" Mickey's eyes seemed to drill into Ash. "Two years? Albert was worried."

"Yeah, well." Ash fiddled with a stray beer-mat. "Things happened, y'know?"

"But you don't want to talk about them."

Ash looked up, then, met Mickey's dark, challenging glare with a firm stare of his own. "No. Not really."

"And you're back to stay?"

"I'm back because Albert asked me. Nicely." Ash put a faint emphasis on the last word. His eyes didn't leave Mickey's.

Mickey nodded distantly. "Okay." The two syllables had a world of meaning: "_I thought we were friends, Ash. Two years without a word? And now you walk back in and it's all supposed to go on as if nothing happened? Prison, a divorce and God knows what else and you won't talk to me. You don't trust me, but I have to trust you?"_

Ash still didn't break his gaze. "Okay, then." _"This isn't easy, Mick. It's taken just about everything I've got to walk in here and face you. I need you to cut me some slack." _

Slowly, Mickey extended a hand. Slowly, Ash took it. A formal handshake. No promises, but a mutual agreement to see how it went from here. Over at the table, Albert gave a tiny sigh of relief – it would do for a start.

"Can I get you a drink?" Mickey indicated his own empty glass as he spoke.

"Just an orange juice, thanks." Ash looked around at the long, low-ceilinged room with its dark wooden tables and series of cosy booths. "This place hasn't changed."

"I should hope not!" Eddie said as he put the drinks down on the bar. "Good to see you again, Ash."

"Cheers, Eddie." Ash picked up his glass and sipped at it as he and Mickey made their way across to Albert.

Mickey placed his glass on the table and scooted along the bench seat to Albert's right. "Has Albert filled you in?" he asked.

"No," Albert answered. "I left that for you."

"Here's one we prepared earlier…" Mickey picked up the newspaper Albert had left on the table and folded it to the sports page before placing it in front of Ash.

Ash looked down at the page and then sharply up at Mickey, and then Albert. Without speaking, he placed his finger on one of the pictures. Both of them nodded slightly. Ash blew out his cheeks and swallowed the rest of his drink in one. "When you said you were going for it, you weren't kidding" he said.

"Albert's hoping for immortality," Mickey replied dryly.

Albert smiled. "There's nothing wrong with aiming high, so long as you choose your weapons with care, and I pride myself on being something of a master tactician. Shall we head up to the hotel? We have a great deal to discuss and our new recruit will be arriving later."

Mickey gave Ash a last searching stare. "If we're all ready."

By way of reply, Ash picked up the paper and stuffed it into his pocket before getting to his feet. Mickey pulled a_ "Fine – if that's the way you want to play it..." _face and stood up, the three of them heading for the door.

"So, who's this new recruit, Albert?" Ash asked, pausing to shrug into his jacket.

"A friend of Mickey's. You'll like her!" Albert opened the door with the faintest of smiles and held it for the others.

"A friend is _all_ she is, Albert!" Mickey said firmly as he followed Ash out.

"'Ey! Mickey! What about that last lot of drinks?" called Eddie after them.

Albert looked back over his shoulder. "Just put them on the tab, Eddie!"

"Yeah, right!" Eddie muttered as the door swung shut.

Albert's hotel suite reflected his personal preferences – all dark wood, leather and cream walls. Classy without being flash. Albert and Mickey looked at home there, handmade suits and elegant style. Ash, perched on the edge of one of the sofa in his jeans and well-worn shirt, looked as though he'd dropped in to fix a dodgy tap and been asked to stay for a coffee. The impression was heightened by the fact that he'd retreated into the shell of privacy which he generally employed in times of emotional upheaval and was avoiding catching Mickey's eye by smoking with fierce concentration and reading his way through the article in the now rather crumpled newspaper.

Albert, armed with a razor-blade, had begun to work through a pile of magazines and sports supplements, deftly slicing out photographs and information which Mickey, uncharacteristically silent, was collecting, sorting and blu-tacking onto one of the walls.

One of Albert's Rules of the Con was "know your enemy". If Darren Duncan was to be successfully scammed, they would need to know every tiny, finicking detail about him. Was he a pints, shorts or cocktails man? His choice of aftershave, whether he favoured Nike or Adidas, the company who sponsored his boots. Who were his friends, who were his ex-friends? Whether he dressed to the right or the left. Anything, anything at all that might provide a topic of conversation, a chance for a knowing comment or a joke, - an In. If a mark felt he was talking to a kindred spirit, he felt safe. If he felt safe, he would relax. And then he'd be hooked, and all they would have to do would be play him and reel him in.

Despite his decision to hold a neutral position and let things take their own course Albert was finding the silence hard going, and it was with some relief that he heard a light tap at the door. "That should be our delightful young lady now," he said, and Mickey hurried across to answer it. Automatic caution led Albert to pull the magazines into a neat pile and palm the razor-blade out of sight, whilst Ash stood up and positioned himself and his dog-eared newspaper in such a way that they blocked the line of sight from the door to Mickey's growing wall display.

A murmur of voices in the hall reassured Albert who rose in smiling welcome as Stacie came in, looking efficient with her hair up in a clip, her coat dampened by a shower and her handbag tucked under her arm.

"There's another one in the hall, thanks, Mickey," she called over her shoulder as she put the bag on the table and slid out of the coat.

Albert took the garment from her, shook it, and dropped it over the back of a chair to dry before clasping her hand in both his. "Welcome, my dear!" he said, as Mickey appeared in the doorway clutching a classy brown leather holdall in one hand and a suitcase in the other.

And then Ash's voice said disbelievingly: "Stacie?"

Stacie turned, stared for a few seconds and then gasped: "It can't be! Ash Morgan?!" and flung her arms around his neck with a squeak of joy. "God, it's so good to _see_ you!"

Ash swept her up in a bear-hug and then stood back, his hands on her shoulders and a huge grin transforming his tired face. "You look amazing, girl!"

"Okay, I give up!" Mickey dropped the holdall on the floor and held up both hands, sounding peevish. "What the hell is going on?"

Ash blushed and hastily stepped back; Stacie squeezed his arm. "Ash is an old friend of my Dad's, Mickey. I haven't seen him in years."

"Good Lord, Ash!" Albert exclaimed. "Have I signed up Percy Monroe's little girl? The one who made you the birthday card with the kittens on?"

"Yeah, all right, Albert," Ash's blush deepened.

"But …" Mickey was still struggling to assimilate the situation "… your Dad's called Keith…"

Stacie gave a snort of laughter and then covered her mouth apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mickey – you should see your face! Percy's my Dad's nickname."

"It's a prison thing," Ash put in hastily. "Let's not go there…"

"Ash used to come round to our house all the time when I was little - I've known him since I was tiny." Stacie smiled up at Ash with affection. "I used to really look forward to him coming because he was so much fun - always making things and showing me stuff. He built me a Wendy-House when I was five!"

Ash blushed again, but he was smiling, too, now. "Yeah, well - I met Percy on the job, and his missus used to invite me round for tea. Must be – what? Ten years since I was last round? She was lovely, your Mum," he added to Stacie, who was still clutching his arm happily.

"Percy Monroe used to run a small business supplying specialist goods for the safecracking trade," Albert added for the benefit of the totally bewildered Mickey, "although I believe he focuses on cab-driving and maintaining his allotment these days." He patted the younger man reassuringly on the shoulder. "This is a sign, my boy. A good omen. It's all meant to be."

"This is just unbelievable!" Stacie gave Ash's arm another squeeze and kissed him on the cheek. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Ash shrugged slightly and glanced at the others. "Well... Albert came round my flat and…" he trailed off and stared hard at Albert. "Here, hold on a minute…"

Mickey stared at Ash, seeing realisation dawning on his face, turned and stared at Albert in his turn, then began to laugh. "You knew who she was!" He pointed accusingly at Albert. "The minute I said her name, you knew. You've been planning this for months!"

"You crafty sod!" exclaimed Ash with affectionate respect.

Albert spread his hands with false modesty. "I suspected. I recognised the name, but I didn't know for sure till just a few moments ago. Still - when the Gods send an old grifter a chance like this, he'd be a fool to turn it down. And since you're all here…"

Stacie was open-mouthed but smiling. Ash shook his head in wonder. Mickey reached out to put an arm across Ash's shoulders and the other around Stacie's waist, and swung round so that the three of them faced Albert. "Okay, okay. We surrender. Here's your team, Albert. All ready to go."

Albert surveyed them, feeling the doubt that had pervaded the room dissolving like fog on a sunny spring morning, and spread his arms wide, grinning broadly, wondering again where those damn trumpets were. "Okay." He slapped his hand on the pile of newspaper on the table. "Let's pull this stuff together and see what we know."

"This…" Stacie dropped a sheaf of clippings onto the coffee table and tapped Duncan's picture with her biro, "is a nasty boy."

"A court appearance for affray, one conviction for assault, two charges of racial harassment, both dropped." Mickey, sprawled on one of the sofas, ticked off the list on his long fingers, "Half a dozen red cards in two seasons, and his ex-girlfriend's just been to the papers and sold her story about how he used to knock her about. Nice."

"So he needs some good positive publicity?" Stacie asked.

"He surely does." Albert sat down beside Stacie, took off his spectacles and tapped them thoughtfully against his chin. "I think, Michael, that as your agent I'm going to tell Fat Freddy all about my exciting young client the hot new NBA star. You're in England on a holiday, you're a golf fanatic, and you're looking for someone to give you a game while you're over here."

"Which would be great, Albert, if I actually played golf. Which I don't."

"That needn't trouble us too much," Albert said, ignoring Mickey's look of _"…oh no – of course it needn't. What a tiny, insignificant little detail…"_ "in fact, we can use it, I think. Duncan likes winning, and if he knows he's got an easy shot he's more likely to take it. Ash, who do we know?"

"What – golf? Errm…" Ash ran his fingers through his reddish hair, a sign that he was browsing his memory bank. "Teddy McIntyre, probably. He gives lessons when the antiques business is a bit slow." He looked at his watch. "It's getting on a bit, but I can call him in the morning."

Albert nodded. "Okay, that's good. How about the other stuff?"

"It'll work." Ash looked at the scattering of documents on the dining table in front of him. "I need to get a look at this private place, and I'll make some calls - we need people in to be bar staff for the day, club members, that sort of thing."

"Can we do it? I mean, is it physically possible?"

"Yeah, yeah. No problem. I'll just need a few days."

"Good." Albert turned to Stacie. "In the meantime, we'll need to create some background noise about Tony Woodhall. How are your PR skills?"

Stacie arched an eyebrow and pouted sexily. "Dazzling, daaaarling."

"Then I think that's as far as we go for tonight." Albert put his spectacles away in his jacket pocket and stood up. "I'm going to turn in. Tomorrow, Stacie my dear, you and I will cook up a media storm – at least in Fat Freddy's head. And you two…" - he pointed his finger at Mickey and Ash - "…will be going shopping together. Sleep well, all!" Suiting action to the word he stretched and disappeared into his room.

Stacie pushed back her chair and shook her hair loose from its clip. "Actually, now he's mentioned it, I'm absolutely shattered," she said. "I think I'll go to bed, too." She tidied the pile of papers she'd been looking through, collected up her coat and bag and paused for a moment, her face alight with happiness. "Isn't all this just … _brilliant_?" she declared to the world in general. "Night, boys!"

As the door clicked shut behind her, a small silence fell. Ash broke it by clearing his throat and swivelling in his seat to face Mickey.

"Listen, Mick – about Stacie…"

"No – no, that's fine, don't…

"Only, I'm not going to piss in your porridge, 'cos obviously…"

"No … Ash, we're not – it's not a…"

"I mean, I'm old enough to be her father, and…"

"ASH!" Mickey finally broke in. "It's fine. We're not involved. She's a friend, that's all. She's had a marriage go bad on her and she's not looking for anything like that at the moment."

"Right. Good. Yeah." Ash sat back and folded his arms. Then, as the penny dropped, he shot upright in his seat "Marriage? Who with? Not that creepy card-sharp she was seeing?"

"Jake Henry?" Mickey asked. "Have you met him?"

Ash shook his head. "He'd better pray I never do, either," he muttered darkly. "You should've heard her Dad on the subject, he was very definite in his views. She left him, did she?"

"He left her," Mickey sat up and poured himself a coffee from the pot on the table. "Walked out with her savings. Disappeared off the face of the earth."

"The little bastard! You tried to find him?" Ash's expression suggested that he had plenty of creative ideas for their next move if the answer to that question was 'yes'.

"No" – Mickey held up a hand to forestall Ash's next outburst – "because she asked me not to, okay? She wants to get on with her life. That's why I asked her about joining the crew; to give her a fresh start. Let it go."

Ash nodded, though his eyes were still snapping blue sparks.

Mickey held up the coffee pot enquiringly and poured them both a second cup. "Speaking of fresh starts," he added, as he passed the drink across to Ash, "I owe you an apology for earlier. I behaved like an idiot."

"Forget it, mate." Ash sipped the hot liquid cautiously and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I left you lot dangling. I'd've been pissed off with me."

"Yeah, maybe. But – still – I'm sorry. I made it hard on you, and I'd like to feel we'd wiped the slate clean. New century, Albert's big score. A new start."

Ash chuckled. "Good old Albert. Bloody genius."

Mickey stood up and held out his hand. "Okay?" _"Albert was right, and I was wrong. I trust you. The rest of it's none of my business."_

Ash stood up and took it, firmly this time, no hesitation. "Okay, then."

"_You're a good kid. You've grown up a lot in two years. This is going to work."_

They drank their coffee together in companionable quiet, and outside the window London rumbled its way restlessly through another night.


	5. Chapter 5 Part One

Chapter 5: Foundations

Mid-morning of the next day found Mickey and Ash leaning side-by side against a wall in a busy London street. The buzz of daily life thronged round them – harassed-looking shoppers, dawdling tourists and office workers diving out for a coffee and a doughnut crowded the pavement whilst vehicles of every conceivable shape and size moved along in slow convoy, the occasional cyclist threading his way along pavement or road as the fancy took him.

"Where are we starting?" Mickey asked

"I got a list." Ash held up a sheet of paper covered with his small, neat writing.

Mickey took it, scanned it, raised a startled eyebrow, gave it back. "We need transport," he said. "We can't carry that lot back under our arms. What do you think – car or van?"

"Van."

"Okay."

By mutual consent they moved off, Mickey watching the right side of the road and Ash the left. After perhaps two hundred yards, Mickey touched Ash on the arm and pointed. Across the street a battered blue van was parked with two wheels up on the kerb and the driver, carrying three large boxes, was heading in the direction of a nearby sportswear shop. Mickey made a brief circling motion with his finger and they separated, Ash heading around the rear of the vehicle whilst he ran across the road and passed in front of it. Ash's head appeared briefly round the back of the van. He gave the slightest of nods, pointed up the street and held up three fingers. Mickey, without stopping, flicked him a quick nod in return and headed for the shop, reaching it at the same time as the driver.

As the over-burdened man pushed open the door, Mickey collided heavily with his left shoulder and sent both driver and boxes careering through into the shop.

"Whoa, man, I'm so sorry!" Mickey grabbed the driver's arm to keep him on his feet whilst the boxes hit the floor and one burst open, sending packets of tennis-balls and shuttlecocks skating across the carpeted floor. "You all right? My fault, I wasn't looking where I was going. Here, let me help you clear up…"

As Mickey began to help the van-driver and the shop-assistant pick up the scattered packets, Ash popped open the passenger door of the van and slid across to the driver's seat. One quick rummage under the dash, a moment or two of fiddling, and the engine roared into life. Ash whacked on an indicator and pulled out into the traffic, just as Mickey, the assistant and the van-driver rushed out of the shop.

"Oh my God! Your van! Here, I'll ring the police!" Mickey whipped out his phone and dialled. "Yeah – police, please. I'd like to report a stolen vehicle. Just now – a few seconds ago. Yeah, I saw him. A big black bloke, with dreads and big black-rimmed specs on. Registration? Hang on, I'll pass you over." He handed his phone to the driver.

"Can I have the registration number of your vehicle, sir?" asked Ash at the other end of the line. "Yes… right, I've got that. I'll pass a description of the vehicle out to our mobile units, sir – can I take a phone number where I can contact you? Thanks. Someone will be in touch within the next few hours."

Ten minutes later, Mickey found the van parked up three streets away and climbed into the passenger seat. "Where to, sir?" asked Ash, who was wearing a baseball cap on his head and had acquired a set of slightly disreputable overalls from the rear of the van.

"What's first on your list?" Mickey asked.

"Laptop." Ash tossed the list across to him as he pulled out onto the main road once more.

"Are there any parcels still in the back?" Mickey asked.

"Yeah – about half a dozen."

"Okay – here's what we do…"

"…so I said to him, look, you stupid little sod. Keep your head down, your gob shut and yer todger in yer pants where it belongs and I might, just, be able to save your career. Swear to God, he's put years on me, the little prat." Fat Freddy Hall paused long enough in his tirade to take a couple of drags on an equally fat cigar and then resumed: "And as for that silly bitch he married – one little slap and she's running to the red-tops yelling her eyes out. Daft cow."

Some marks took a lot of charming before they began to pour out their sorrows, but for the moment Albert was having to do little more than nod sympathetically; Freddy Hall wasn't noted for his shy and retiring nature.

"What's yours like, then?" Freddy asked abruptly, and Albert sighed.

"Impatient," he replied. He'd decided that Joe Miller, his alter-ego for this project, was a New Yorker, a little loud, a little brash. He was wearing plenty of heavy gold jewellery with his suit, and his shirt was open at the neck. "Convinced he's the answer to America's prayers, wants to run before he can walk." He leaned forward a little. "To be honest, I've brought him over here to get him away from the press. There's a couple of rumours following him around, and I wanted to let the smoke die down. I wanna get the kid some serious sponsorship, and I can't do that when some woman's saying he fathered her child and then ran out on her."

"Tell me about it." Freddy peered at his empty glass. "You got time for another?"

Albert looked up at the clock. "Nah – I'm meeting the kid's PA. She's a tight-ass; she'll never let it rest if she catches me drinking this time in the morning. In fact, here she comes now!" As he spoke this last, Albert rose to his feet and guiltily slid his own glass onto a nearby table before crossing the room to greet Stacie, whose hair was tied up in its clip once more and who was gliding elegantly toward them in a neat turquoise suit. "Abigail, honey. How are ya?"

Accepting a kiss on the cheek, Stacie gave him a brisk smile. "Very well, thank you, Mr Miller. How was the journey here?"

"The journey sucked, as always. Here, I wanna introduce you to Freddy Hall. Freddy – Abigail Hunter."

Freddy scrambled to his feet, hastily snatching the cigar from the corner of his mouth. "Morning, Miss Hunter. Good to meet you." He held out a hand and she took it briefly and shot him an unenthusiastic smile.

"It's Ms, actually. Good morning, Mr Hall." Almost dismissing him, she turned to Albert. "I bring good news about the interview. They'd like a little exclusive – rising young star and all that – and they want to bring their photographer. So I wondered whether we might discuss a venue."

"Got a piece running in Yes! Magazine" Albert explained to Freddy. "One of those things where they ask about your goddamn star-sign and photograph you in your luxury pad sitting on your ass. Hey, Abi – we gotta think of a good angle on this. Something that don't involve relationships. I wanna keep talk of girlfriends right outta the frame for the next few months."

Stacie nodded. "We could do with something a little different"

"'Ere!" Freddy prodded Albert in the shoulder. "'Ow about we 'elp each other out?" Albert looked at him inquiringly. Encouraged, Freddy continued. "You wanna safe subject for your shoot, yeah? My lad could do with some positive stuff. What if we get them together, yeah? "Hands across the water", all that bollocks. Do a lads piece. Get them both a nice bit of promotion."

A bell starts to ring in Albert's mind. Didn't even need to cast a line for this one – he gulped the bait down and jumped out of the water of his own accord

"That's a great idea!" Albert whacked the edge of the table enthusiastically, startling Stacie/Abigail, who flinched slightly. "Why don't we get the guys together and work on a venue?"

Stacie cleared her throat. "Mr Miller, the magazine was going to pay us a quite reasonable sum…"

"Screw the money. We'll split it two ways." Albert flapped a dismissive hand at her. "It's the coverage we need, right, Freddy?"

"Right!" Freddy shoved his cigar back into the corner of his mouth and grinned round it at Stacie, who sniffed slightly and looked away.

"Oookay! Abigail, I need you to raise the kid for me. Get him outta bed, I gotta talk to him. Freddy – you got my number. Call me, yeah?"

"Suits me, mate!" Freddy struggled to his feet. "I'll track Dazzer down and get a word. Stay lucky!" He flashed a grin at Albert, sneaked a quick pinch at Stacie's rear which made her squeak indignantly, and was gone in a cloud of cigar-smoke and strong aftershave.

Albert and Stacie watched him go.

"Classy!" muttered Albert.

"Mmmmm. All the charm of a half-trained pitbull." Stacie folded her arms as she glared at Freddy's disappearing back. "What happens now?"

"Well…" Albert cocked his head, considering. "I'd say we have a couple of hours before he calls. In the meantime, perhaps you'd care to accompany me on a little fundraising trip? There are a few things that have to be paid for, alas, and our hotel has a very fine casino attached."

Stacie smiled. "That sounds lovely."

Albert extended a polite arm, she took it, and the two of them strolled out into the sunshine.


	6. Chapter 5 Part Two

A battered blue van drew up in the delivery area of a large IT and office supplies warehouse. The driver, a stocky man in a baseball cap and grubby blue overalls, climbed out, collected a largish box from the rear of his vehicle and headed for the reception booth by the entrance.

"Hello, sweetheart." He propped the box on the edge of the sill and leaned on it, peering cheerily in through the window. "Gotta delivery for you. You'll need to sign … no, hang on …" he rummaged through the papers on his clipboard and pulled out a slip "… yeah – you need to sign this one."

The receptionist took the clipboard and looked at the slip. "This isn't ours, love," she said. "You're on the wrong bit of the estate."

"You're joking!" Ash pushed his cap up to scratch the top of his head. "Where do I want to be, then? Oi, steady on, mate!" he added, as a tall black man shoved past him on his way into the building. "Some people got no manners at all, do they?" This earned him a sympathetic smile from the receptionist, who then set about giving him directions to his hypothetical destination.

Inside the warehouse, Mickey headed along the aisles in the direction of computer equipment. Several members of staff passed him, but he was waiting to spot the shirt and tie that would mark out a member of the management team. Just by reprographic equipment he spotted his quarry, and zeroed in for the kill.

"Hi!" he said, holding out his hand with a big smile. "I'm Joel Worricker from the tech department at Head Office; I've come to collect the sample. Shall I just select one myself, or have you earmarked something?"

"Sorry?" the manager, a pleasant-looking middle-aged man, shook the proffered hand confusedly.

"Joel Worricker." Mickey gave his best smile again. "You should have had a memo telling you I was coming down?"

"I'm very sorry, Mr Worricker, but I've had no notification at all. Can you tell me what it's regarding?"

"Sure" - Mickey got a quick look at the name-badge clipped to the man's shirt pocket - "Geoff. We've had some complaints from purchasers of a high-spec laptop about hardware malfunctions, and we're trying to trace the batch-number for testing. At the moment we're having no luck, so we're randomly sampling across the stock that's currently in store. Look, I'll tell you what, I'll call my colleague up at Head Office and check if we can get round this … just a moment."

Back in the van, Ash picked up the phone as it vibrated in his pocket. Mickey's voice was brisk and professional:

"Hello – switchboard? Can you put me through to Lionel in tech, please?"

"Lionel?"

"That's great, thanks," Mickey replied sweetly.

"Just checking – is their Head Office in Birmingham?"

"Absolutely, no problem."

"Shove me on speakerphone, then"

"Yes, I'll hold."

Mickey rolled his eyes apologetically at the anxious Geoff and flicked the phone onto speaker. A few seconds later Ash's voice emerged from the speaker clad in a rich Midlands accent.

" 'Ellow?"

"Hi, Lionel? It's Joel here. I'm down at the Salisbury Street branch and it seems they haven't had the notification."

"Aw, bleedin' 'ell. Can't Admin do anything without us 'avin' to sort their mess out?" The speakerphone emitted a deep, exasperated sigh. "Listen, Joel, 'ave you got their chap there with you?"

"Yes – yes, he's been really helpful." Mickey winked at Geoff, who was losing his air of distress and beginning to look pleased and efficient.

"That's great. Can you get 'im to do us a favour and select a lappy for us? That way we know it's a random sample. And I'll get Admin to fax the notification over, orright?"

Geoff nodded "Sure, I can do that!"

"Thanks, mate. That saves a load of messing about. All right then, Joel? I'll go fax the stuff over now. Cheers!"

"See you later." Mickey flipped the phone shut and looked pleased. "Great. This is really good of you, Geoff. Saves me trailing all the way back here next week. If you could just pull me out one of these…" he passed across a sheet of paper.

"No problem – they're over here." Geoff pointed to a nearby shelf and Mickey followed him as he hurried over and selected a box from the centre of the stack.

"That's fantastic, Geoff – I owe you one!" Mickey tucked the box under one arm and shook Geoff's hand again. "We'll run the tests and then we'll notify you about the suspect batch number when we have the results of the sample back. I should think in a couple of weeks. Thanks again!"

A cheery wave, and he strode past the receptionist, down the street and round the corner to the waiting van.

"Lionel?" asked Ash, as he climbed in.

"Birmingham?" Mickey replied, grinning.

Ash chuckled and shoved the van into gear. "Printer?"

"Printer." Mickey confirmed as they pulled away.

They were back in the suite, Stacie counting their winnings and Albert looking at the racing pages in the paper, by the time the call came through. He picked up the flashing phone from the coffee-table and checked the number on the display before answering. "Freddy!" he cried, his accent back in the broad Noo Yawk drawl. "I was gonna call you! Thanks for getting back to me so soon. You do? That's great. Huh? In The Golden Fleece? That's a casino, right? Sure, we'd love that. Give our boys a chance to bond over a little light gaming! Swell. Okay, I'll do that. We'll be there. See ya!"

He flicked off his phone and steepled his fingers thoughtfully, weighing up new possibilities and how they might fit the picture. Stacie glanced across at him and he nodded reassuringly. "He loves us," he said cheerfully. "We're meeting him – and Darren - tomorrow night."

"That's great." Stacie held up the wad of cash in her left hand. "We've got about three hundred here, so that's a start."

"It surely is, but we're going to need more." Albert thought for a moment. Reaching a decision, he stood up. "I'm heading out to check up on something. Will you be okay?"

"I'll be fine." Stacie indicated a credit card on the table beside her. "I need to get a couple of outfits, so I thought I'd break this in."

"Excellent. Have fun!" With a little wave, Albert collected his jacket and headed out of the door, calling up a number on his phone as he did so.

"Michael? How's it going with you? That's good. Freddy's been back to me, and we're set for tomorrow night. I need to check something – I'll be a couple of hours, okay? Yes, that'll work for me. Okay."

As he put away his phone, the lift doors opened to reveal the not unattractive figure of the romantic novelist who had the suite above his and whom he'd been gently cultivating for the past few days.

"Why, Mr Winchester – hello!" she called, beckoning him to stand beside her.

"Good afternoon, my dear." Albert stepped into the lift and raised her proffered hand gallantly to his lips.

She giggled. "You're the most awful tease, but I forgive you. Now – where's that delightful young actor friend of yours? The two of you still haven't kept our date for tea."

"Oh, you know the young. Always gallivanting off on some project. I believe he's meeting with a casting director in the West End this afternoon." Albert politely stood aside to let her precede him out into the splendid lobby.

"How exciting. You must let me know how it goes."

"I will. In fact, I'll even let you buy us some champagne to celebrate."

"Lovely, darling. Bye bye!" She gave him a coquettish little wave as she hurried away and he returned a slight but elegant bow.

Once she was well gone he walked out onto the steps and stopped by the concierge. "Hey, Harry," he said quietly.

The short, carroty-haired man winked at him from under his peaked cap. "All right, Mr Stroller?"

"I'm looking for a little information…" Albert began in an undertone.

Upstairs, Stacie was on the phone, a glossy brochure open on the table in front of her. "Well, I'm looking for it in blue, in a twelve … you have? That's lovely. Can you hold it for me, and I'll pop over there. No, I'll only be a few minutes. Thanks you so much…"

Harry thought for a moment. "If I was you, sir, I'd try Napoleon's. Have a word with Barney who works in the bar there – I understand the chap you're after's a regular. And watch your step, won't you, Mr Stroller. No offence, but there's some offish types hang about in there."

"You're a gem, Harry." Albert slipped a twenty pound note into the concierge's hand and the little man palmed it like a professional.

"No trouble, Mr Stroller." Harry raised his finger and a taxi-cab pulled up at the foot of the steps as though summoned by magic. Albert climbed in and was swept into the neverending flow of traffic in the direction of Leicester Square.

By the end of the afternoon, the chic hotel suite looked like an upmarket car-boot sale. Ash, shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, was contentedly absorbed in a pile of hardware, software, cables and adaptors which he was assembling, with the occasional muttered phrase of encouragement or exasperation, into a working whole. Stacie had draped her purchases in a colourful array across the furniture and was pattering back and forth to her room with a handful of coathangers and a dreamy expression, pausing from time to time to hold up a swirl of sequins against herself and pose briefly in front of the full-length mirror. Mickey's neat suit had been abandoned in favour of a black t-shirt and cargo pants, which he'd judged better suited for the task of folding down the empty boxes as small as he could get them and tying them up in bundles for discreet disposal.

Albert, letting himself quietly in, observed the busy scene with satisfaction for a moment before observing: "Nothing like honest work for building an appetite."

"How would you know?" Ash responded, leaning across the table to plug in a couple of power cables.

"You can mock," Albert sidestepped Stacie as she passed him with a confection in green satin spilling from her arms. "I've made an honest living in the past. I simply decided it wasn't for me. Now – where are we?"

"Almost done here." Stacie reappeared from her room and picked up the last two dresses.

"Not far off," said Ash, who was now tapping rapidly away at his keyboard. "In fact … come on, don't mess me about … yes!" He beat a brief celebratory tattoo on the edge of the table. "Up and running."

Mickey straightened his back, wincing a little. "We need to get this lot out of here tonight," he said.

"That's all right, I'll do it." Ash emerged from behind the table and picked up the last box, deftly folding it flat as he spoke. "I'll run it down in the service lift and drop it off when I take the van back. Are you ringing room service, Albert?"

"That was my plan."

"Don't bother for me, then. I'll pick a curry up while I'm out."

"Ooh, that sounds good!" Stacie dropped onto the sofa and stretched her arms out along the back. "Can you bring me a chicken biryani back, Ash? And paratha naan?"

"Mick?"

"Sounds great. Prawn dupiaza for me, I think, and a couple of chapattis. Here, I'll give you a hand with that lot."

Albert shuddered delicately as Mickey and Ash shouldered their burdens. "Philistines," he muttered. "What's wrong with a club sandwich?"

Later that evening, Mr Quentin Marlowe of Streatham answered a ring at his doorbell to find no-one outside. He was about to slam the door shut in disgust when a faint rustling sound made him look down at the doormat, where, he discovered a piece of paper with the words "Outside. Sorry. Thanks" printed on it. Wrenching the door wide, the startled Quentin ran down the path to find his stolen van parked at the roadside a few yards away from his gate.

For a few moments he stared disbelievingly at the vehicle, and peered from side to side along the empty pavement, until at long last he shrugged his shoulders and returned indoors to ponder on his unusual day.

As the door closed behind Quentin's confused back, Ash emerged quietly from the shadows a few yards down the street and wandered off in the direction of the main road. The faint sound of happy whistling drifted along with him as he pondered the respective merits of bhajis and pakoras, and finally decided on both.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The Rookie**

Would she always get stage fright, Stacie wondered, or was it because this was her first real test? She hadn't felt nervous like this in the past, working cons with her ex involving tight dresses, Manolo Blahniks and lots of flashing cleavage. It came as something of a shock to her to realise that however much in love with Jake she'd been, or enthralled by him, she hadn't liked him much. Only now was it dawning on her that it hadn't really mattered to her if his schemes worked the way he'd planned or not – she'd said her lines, walked through her moves, doing what would please Jake and nothing more. But tonight, she cared. After only a couple of days it seemed of paramount importance to prove herself worthy of Mickey's trust; to show Albert that she could be everything she'd claimed.

With hands that shook slightly she smoothed down the skirt of her green satin dress and turned about to catch a final glimpse of her reflection. No plunging necklines for Abigail Hunter – a neat, simple sheath dress with a round neck and cap sleeves, pearls, sheer stockings, neat matching shoes and handbag. Efficient, elegant, expensive. She needed to fascinate and intimidate tonight and nothing more. A last pat at her hair, a dash of perfume, and she was ready.

Albert, lounging in the leather armchair in his Joe Miller getup of heavy gold and a little too much cologne, nodded approvingly as he caught sight of her coming into the room. Mickey, who seldom lounged and had been standing at the window staring into the distance, gave her one of his dazzling smiles and said: "You look great!" Ash, who had the phone clamped to his ear and a notepad balanced on his knee, gave her a wink and a quick thumbs-up before returning to his conversation, punctuated with bouts of scribbling on the pad.

"I've called us a cab for eight," Albert said, "so it should be here in a few minutes."

Stacie nodded, not trusting her voice to come out without a quiver in it, and opened the long cupboard by the door to retrieve her coat. As she closed the door she found Mickey at her shoulder, holding out his hand. She passed him the coat and he held it for her to slip into; then gave her shoulders a swift, reassuring squeeze. "You'll be fine," he said softly.

"Am I that transparent?" she asked, fastening the belt snugly around her waist and securing the end neatly through the loop.

He smiled. "Not transparent, just predictable."

"Well, thank you very much!" But she felt better already. Something about Mickey's combination of intelligence, confidence and warmth made it impossible not to believe in him, and his self-belief was contagious. "Does it ever go away?"

"What – the fear? No. Never." He shook his head, still smiling, but not mocking her. "After a while you get used to it, and you realise that's what gives you the edge. It sharpens you up, makes you think faster. If you ever lose it, become complacent – then you're in trouble."

They both looked round as the intercom buzzed. "That'll be our cab," Albert said as Mickey pressed the button.

"_Taxi for Winchester,"_ crackled the voice from the speaker, and Albert stood up, rubbing his hands.

"Are we ready for an evening of good food, pleasant wine and boorish company?" he enquired. "Good. Then let's be on our way."

He opened the door courteously. Stacie drew a deep breath. She glanced over at Ash who this time held up his crossed fingers and winked again. She glanced up at Mickey, who nodded. And then she gathered all her courage and walked out into the hallway, ready to play her part and prove her worth.

* * *

Darren Duncan lived right down to Stacie's expectations. She'd done her homework assiduously, and so was fully prepared for the arrogance, the self obsession, the drinking, the all-too-mobile hands and the general air of – as Albert had so accurately assessed it – boorishness. And to her profound relief she found herself more than equal to the task of both fascinating him and keeping him well at arm's length by being just a little scary.

Her fear had not gone, but had transformed into a not unpleasant sense of preternatural alertness. Sounds were louder, colours brighter, scents more intense; the food – which was indeed good – had a depth and complexity to it she was sure she'd never known before. Above all, details leaped out at her as though outlined in light: The slight edge of contempt in Freddy's voice when he spoke to his client; Darren's instantly defensive reaction to the presence of Mickey; the way Albert was gaining Darren's trust by treating him as Mickey's equal. She understood the rules of this game, and she could play.

"So, Darren – I understand you've just signed a new contract?" She leaned forward just enough as she spoke and sipped at her wine, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

He flushed and swallowed half a forkful of pasta. "Broke the club record," he boasted, the second half of the pasta still in his mouth. "Twenny-five grand a week. I was gonna go higher, but Freddy said we didn't wanna scare 'em off. Top scorer last season. An' this one an' all."

"_Oh no you're not," Stacie thought. "You haven't scored since March and you're getting a bit desperate to get one before the end of the season. Freddy did wonders getting you that contract… _I thought Barratt was the top scorer this season?" she said aloud.

"Barratt?" Darren choked. "He's just been lucky in the last few. Couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo, darlin'!" He stretched out to pat her on the knee and she smoothly crossed her legs to move tantalisingly out of his reach.

Satisfied that she'd hit a nerve, Stacie took another sip of wine, then said: "I understand from Mr Hall that you're a golfer."

Darren shrugged. "I like a few rounds, yeah. So long as there's a bit of action on the side to keep things lively, you know what I mean?" He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and winked in an attempt at a subtle manner.

"That's cool," Mickey put in from his place across the table. "I just took it up a few months ago."

"They have golf in the jungle, then?" Darren snorted at his own wit through another mouthful.

"Maybe they do, I wouldn't know. I'm from California."

"Oh yeah? They got good courses over there. They let you play on 'em then?"

"I do okay," Mickey said. His voice was relaxed but his eyes were chips of obsidian.

"So what's your handicap?" Darren asked.

Mickey shrugged. "The course I play on regularly, about twenty-five. Probably not so good over here."

"Reckon you could beat me?" grinned Darren, swallowing the last of his pasta and following it down with a gulp of wine that half-drained his glass.

"Reckon I might," Mickey drawled lazily.

"It sounds to me as though this could be a great basis for that interview, Mr Miller," Stacie interjected. "Friendly rivalry, bonding on the fairway. We could even bring in some sponsorship money, if we found the right clothing labels."

"Sounds like a pain in the ass to me," grunted Mickey.

"Well, _I_ reckon Abigail's right - that could be a great idea!" Albert cut in. "Don't argue, Tony," he added, as Mickey opened his mouth. "You could do with a few thousand words of copy about something other than your Johnson and where you've put it this week." Mickey subsided, rolling his eyes in disgust, as Albert continued inexorably. "Freddy, why don't we get these two kids together for a round of golf? Abigail can arrange to have the guys from the magazine there, and we can do a piece on how these two love to spend their spare time indulging in a good, clean bit of competition. We'll split the money from the article, so you'll be up on the deal all ways. Whaddaya say?"

Freddy puffed his cigar for a second. "What's the hag-mag offered you, then?"

"Ten thousand," Stacie said, "but as we said yesterday, Mr Hall, it's not about the money. A good, positive placement is worth far more than its cash value."

"I like your thinking." Freddy levelled a chubby finger in her direction. "Right, Dazza. You heard the lady and the gentleman. You just got signed up for a couple of rounds."

Darren, who was scanning the dessert menu intently, shrugged. "All right with me," he said. "Bet I can whip your arse any day, mate."

Mickey leaned back in his chair and stretched. "I wouldn't be so sure."

Something in his voice made Darren glance up. Their eyes met, and each glared at the other.

"I would." Darren said.

* * *

"Whew!" Stacie slid open the cab window. "What a stink of testosterone! You two were doing everything except spraying the furniture back there."

"What a little arsehole," Mickey muttered.

Albert laughed, but his eyes were serious. "Don't let him get under your skin."

"I haven't," Mickey lied, fooling no-one.

Stacie flopped back against the cool leather of the seat, closed her eyes and drew a deep, relieved breath, letting the breeze from the window ruffle her hair.

"You did a fine job tonight, my dear." Albert told her. "You're a natural, no doubt about it."

She smiled without opening her eyes. "I was absolutely terrified," she admitted. "Did it show?"

"Not at all," he said reassuringly.

She lifted one eyelid to look across at him. "Honestly?"

"Honestly, Stacie," Mickey joined in. "We'd tell you if there were any problems. You were fantastic."

"You've got grift sense," Albert said. "An instinct. It can't be taught, only refined and developed. Not that I think we'll need to do much refining with you."

Mickey dropped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a proud hug. "Well done."

She closed her eyes again and allowed herself to relax against him. He left his arm draped around her and it felt comfortable to lean against his warmth. This was the right place for her. She fitted with these people, already thought of them as friends. She'd shown them that she wasn't the weak link and that she could do her bit.

"What next?" she heard Mickey ask, his voice rumbling pleasantly through the bones of his chest.

"Next, we push things along a little," Albert said. "We'll see what Ash has for us when we get back, and then tomorrow I think we'll begin our stay in the country. Oh – and there's going to be a little matter of raising five thousand pounds for that convincer."

Stacie let their voices fade to a soothing hum and drowsed as they talked. She was content.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Links**

"This is a bit of all right, innit?" Ash was stretched out full length on the sunny bank, his feet pointing downhill and his head resting on one arm. A skylark was pouring down its waterfall of song somewhere in the blue sky and the leaves of a small stand of nearby trees were waving gently in a light, warm wind which smelt of summer.

Stacie, reclined on the bench by his shoulder, sighed happily by way of agreement. "I'm not sure Mickey's having quite such a good time, though."

Ash raised his head to peer down the slope to the green where Mickey was having his third golf lesson in as many days. As they watched, Mickey's club swung up and back, then swept down to strike the ball cleanly. They were too far away to hear any sound, but the sight of ripples spreading on the water hazard and the disgusted slump of Mickey's shoulders told their own story. "I think he's getting better," Ash observed.

"You're just mean!" Stacie leaned down to swat at him gently with her magazine.

"No arguing, now, children." Albert appeared from the direction of the house and leaned on the back of Stacie's bench. Looking down the slope he added: "I see Michael is still fighting the good fight."

"Yeah, well, he can't be brilliant at _everything, _can he?" Ash laid his head back down and blinked up at the sun.

"That won't stop him from trying," Albert pointed out. "I thought his torture should be done for today; that was why I came over."

"It looks like they've finished." Stacie raised a hand and waved to Mickey, receiving a weary flourish of a nine-iron in return.

A few minutes later Mickey trudged up the bank to join them, the gangling, tweedy, ginger-haired figure of Euan McIntyre strolling in his wake. "Not a word!" Mickey said, warningly, slipping his clubs off his shoulder and letting them clatter to the ground.

"We wouldn't dream of it!" Stacie shot Ash a look and swung her legs down, patting the bench beside her. "Poor Mickey – you look exhausted."

"He's not doing so badly as all that," Euan assured them as Mickey flopped gratefully into the proffered seat. "Good hand-eye co-ordination and a good sense of balance…"

"… and a vertical learning-curve." Mickey added, easing his shoulders in slow circles.

Euan leaned against the trunk of one of the nearby birch trees and removed his panama to let the wind ruffle his hair. "You're getting it fine," he said. "Another three or four lessons and you'll pass anywhere."

"I came to ask about that," Albert said. "That takes us into next week – does that dovetail with you, Ash?"

Ash considered briefly, then nodded. "Should be about right. We haven't had that much to do, considering the size of the place. Need to do some finishing up, stock the bar, sort a few people to act as staff."

"Stacie?"

She squinted up at him. "That's fine. I spoke to Freddy this morning and he's quite happy. So long as we fix a definite date by tomorrow afternoon I can keep him nicely on the boil."

"It was a good wee find, this place, Albert." Euan looked admiringly up the gentle slope towards the elegant Victorian structure of Lansdowne Park, half-hidden amongst mature beech and chestnut trees with the handsome modern clubhouse standing proudly on what had once been a large front lawn.

"My ace in the hole," Albert said. "The owner's away for several months and as it happens he owed me a considerable amount of money. I took this as payment in kind."

"Because you never know when you might need a golf course handy." Mickey remarked.

"Never look the proverbial horse in his proverbial mouth, my boy." Albert straightened up and rubbed his hands briskly. "Now, who's for something long and cool?"

"Oh, please!" Stacie said as Mickey raised a hand.

"I put some beers in the fridge in the bar this morning – you can get a few out if you take them from the back," suggested Ash.

"Don't you just love this job?" Stacie stretched languidly and smiled teasingly at Mickey, whose half-closed eyes and irritable expression indicated that at the present time he didn't care for this job much at all.

"I'll bring them over," Albert offered. "Euan?"

"Not for me, sadly. I've to see a man about a dodgy piece of Victoriana. Shall we say Saturday, Mickey? Give you a day off?" Euan emerged from the shade and replaced his hat.

"You're too kind," Mickey said without opening his eyes.

"That reminds me, Euan," Albert began to stroll across the grass with the tall man at his side, "I wanted to ask you about that Georgian card-table with the secret drawer…"

"Never lets up, does he?" Ash said affectionately as the two mismatched figures headed around the corner of the clubhouse and out of sight.

Mickey smiled up at the sky. "Fish swim, birds fly, Albert grifts."

"There's something I've been wondering..." Stacie said, a little hesitantly. Both men looked at her and she leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. "All this – it's a bit over the top, isn't it? I mean – we're spending a lot of money and I don't see us making much profit. We're going to pay Freddy Hall five thousand quid for a start-off…"

"That's the convincer," Mickey reminded her. "It buys us Freddy's trust and makes sure he comes back for more when we want him to."

"But more what?" Stacie asked. "There's only so much money we can fleece out of Darren before he stops wanting to play you at poker. Even he's not that stupid. Okay, so he'll bring all his mates from Blackwall FC to spend money in the bar, but even then they'll only be good for a few thousand. Surely we need somewhere bigger for this to go, don't we?"

Mickey and Ash exchanged glances, and then Ash slowly extended his open hand toward his friend. Sighing, Mickey dug in his trouser pocket and produced twenty pounds which he slapped good-naturedly into the waiting palm.

"Ta very much, Mick."

As Ash slipped the note into his own pocket, Stacie looked from one to the other. Innocence stared back. "Did you two have a bet on me?" she demanded.

"It's possible…" Ash said, poker-faced.

"We may have." Mickey agreed.

"On the plus side, I was the one who said you'd clock it," Ash added.

"Let's get this straight!" Stacie turned accusingly to face Mickey, who pulled a "_thanks a lot" _face in Ash's direction. "Not only did you have a bet _against_ me, but you bet that I was a thickie?"

Mickey sighed. "There's no good way out of this, is there?"

"No!" came the reply from the others in perfect unison.

"I was afraid not. Sorry!"

She folded her arms and gave him a mock-evil glare. "So, am I right?"

"About Albert having something more up his sleeve?" Mickey pushed himself fully upright on the bench. "Well … as you say, Darren and all his mates together will just about spend enough for us to break even…"

"… and there's all this stuff about going down in grifting history," Ash put in. "Shaking down a few flash gits isn't going to do that, is it? No matter how slick we are."

"But whatever it is," resumed Mickey, "it's not quite in place. Otherwise he'd have given us the details by now. Something must be not quite as he wants it."

"What do you think it might be?" Stacie asked

"You know as much as we do. What do _you_ think?"

"Well…" she hesitated, weighing the possibilities. "We're conning one player and his agent. Conning more players isn't going to be financially profitable, and it's not going to get extra recognition. It just makes it more likely that someone will work out who we are and what we're doing. So it would have to be higher up the food chain. A manager? A chairman? Who's the chairman at Blackwall … what are you looking at me like that for?"

Mickey turned to Ash. "Is it only me, or are you a bit scared of her as well?"

"She's terrified me for years," said Ash dryly.

Stacie flushed a little, but her smile betrayed her pleasure at their backhanded complements. "I'm a quick learner."

Ash pushed himself up on one elbow to peer over their heads. "Beer!" he announced warningly, and they turned to see Albert returning with the bottles in his hands.

Stacie put down her magazine and went to relieve Albert of some of his burden.

Mickey looked at Ash. "I think she's got it, you know."

"Yeah." Ash appeared thoughtful as he clambered up and busied himself dusting down his jeans. "Dunno about going down in grifting history – sounds more like front page headlines to me."

Mickey, seemingly energised at the thought, hopped to his feet and slapped Ash's shoulder as he followed Stacie. "Don't worry, Ash. We can handle a little notoriety."

Ash followed more sedately. "Wanna bet?" he said under his breath.

* * *

A few more days, as Euan had predicted, made all the difference.

Mickey became competent enough at golf to lose convincingly to Darren, which at this stage was all that was required of him.

Albert emerged from the study at regular intervals to check on progress, wearing an air of satisfaction but remaining intriguingly impenetrable.

Stacie chatted alluringly several times on the phone with Freddy Hall and had booked a firm date for the entourage to turn up for the shoot, along with an acquaintance of hers from college who was going to take the photos and was under the impression that she was taking part in a subversive art project using look-alikes.

Ash completed the fitting out the clubhouse to a startlingly high spec, so long as everyone stayed in the four rooms which he'd managed to stretch the budget to cover, and brought on board four or five bar staff – contacts who would work for a few hundred in cash.

Wednesday, June 21st in the year 2000 dawned bright and sunny – and the con was on.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Convincer

Chapter 8: Convincer

"That looks great. Can you stand back to back for me? And look at the camera? That's gorgeous, boys – thank you very much… hold that…"

"Nice bit of skirt," Darren Duncan remarked through his fixed grin as Stacie's friend Carrina backed away to angle her camera upward at their faces.

Shoulder to shoulder with the footballer, Mickey twinkled at the lens. "A little classy for you, ain't she?" he asked under his breath, and was pleased to see a brief snarl flit across Duncan's face. He'd been in the other man's close company for only fifteen minutes and already it felt like too long.

Carrina bent down to get a different lens out of her bag and Mickey watched with barely veiled contempt as Duncan took the opportunity to ogle her backside. Mickey hadn't been looking forward to today. Not only was he going to have to spend the day socialising with an ignorant yob whilst resisting a growing desire to thump said yob in his smug teeth; he was going to have to let Duncan beat him at golf. If he made it to the end of the ordeal without making illegal use of his nine-iron it would be a miracle.

"…would you mind, Tony?" Carrina was saying, and Mickey was suddenly aware that she'd been speaking to him.

"Sorry, honey." Mentally slapping himself round the head for inattention, Mickey accorded her the full power of one of his best smiles as he was edged into the correct position by the gentle pressure of a well-manicured hand on his arm. From her position at one of the tables a few yards away, Stacie gave him a supportive look over the rim of her glass of Buck's Fizz.

"It's lookin' great, boys!" Albert called across encouragingly. He had drawn Freddy into conversation by the door of the clubhouse and the two of them were seated on a pair of wrought-iron chairs in the shade of a tree.

Having positioned her subjects with their arms matily around each others shoulders and strewn items of golfing gear artistically about them, Carrina fired off a few more shots.

"Can we leave this off now, Freddy?" Duncan asked. "It's a right pain in the arse, all this pratting about."

"Depends what Miss PA over there says, Dazza. She's the boss of this bit."

Stacie smiled at Freddy sweetly as she stood up to consult with her friend. She'd decided that Abigail wasn't much of an outdoor girl and consequently was dressed in a highly impractical but very fetching white trouser suit. "What do you think, Carrina? Shall we let these poor lambs go and play?"

"I'd like to do a close-up in profile to finish, actually." Carrina, a pretty blonde with a heart-shaped face, a full figure and a businesslike approach, handed her camera to Stacie. "Hold that for me for a sec, will you? Right, chaps!" she strode across to Duncan and Mickey and took each of them firmly by the shoulder. "Just turn this way…" A brisk tug and the two men found themselves almost nose-to-nose; not a situation which either of them relished.

"Lovely!" declared Carrina. "Just a bit this way… (a second tug) …that gets the light on your cheekbones. Very artistic, boys, you look fab. Hold it there and share the love for me…" She stepped back and, as the camera whirred and clicked, her two victims shared the love and thought about throttling each other. The moment she said: "That's all I need," they sprang apart like repelling magnets.

"I think we can load things up and get under way," Stacie waved to Des and Laurie, two of Ash's friends who were working as caddies for the day, and ushered Mickey and Duncan toward the clubhouse. As they moved away she turned to Carrina. "Are you following us round?" she asked.

"Too right I am, darling. I've got lots more angles I can get on these two. Is your sexy American mate spoken for?"

"He's married to his beliefs," Stacie told her as they headed across the grass.

"Really?" Carrina gave her strappy top a little downward tug to show her ample frontage to better effect. "Wonder if I can tempt him into a little bigamy?"

"Looks like they're done," Albert said to Freddy, indicating the little group strolling over to where Des and Laurie were checking the bags and piling equipment into the back of a golf-cart.

Freddy sighed. "Suppose we'll 'ave to show willin' an traipse round there with 'em, then. Don't want it to turn into 'andbags at fifty paces. 'Ere!" he called in through the open door. "Shove another quick one in there, mate."

"Certainly, sir." Ash, resplendent in a neat white shirt and navy bow-tie, appeared in the doorway with a bottle in his hand and poured a double measure of Jack Daniels into Freddy's proffered glass before turning to Albert. "Will you be returning to the bar after the game, Mr Miller? I can arrange for us to stay open and provide refreshments if you wish."

"That'd be great, Robert." Albert looked at Freddy, who was making short work of his drink. "Whaddaya say, Fred? We could come back here after those two finish and have ourselves a bit of an evening. You got no rules against gambling, right?" He glanced back at Ash as he spoke.

"Not at all, sir." Ash's brisk London speech had been transformed into a mellifluous Jeeves. "This is a private club, and we do have a gaming licence."

"Sound good to you?" Albert asked.

Freddy drained his glass. "Spot on, mate. I'm gonna need something to look forward to at the end of this, I can tell yer."

"Very good, sir – I'll make the necessary arrangements." Ash inclined his head slightly and disappeared back indoors.

"We all set, then?" Freddy bellowed.

"It's going very well so far, Mr Hall." Stacie glided across the grass to meet them. "May I introduce Carrina Buckley?"

Freddy's eyes widened a little as he took in Carrina's figure. "You certainly may!"

As the two of them shook hands, Carrina freeing her fingers as quickly as possible from Freddy's sweaty grasp, Albert swung himself into the golf-cart. "Hey, Fred, get yourself over here," he called. "We're gonna do this thing, we may as well be comfortable."

"I wouldn't mind getting comfortable with that!" Freddy nodded in the direction of Carrina as he scrambled in beside Albert and manoeuvred his not inconsiderable bulk into a restful position.

Albert grinned. "Ooo-kay." He leaned over to wave to Mickey, who nodded back. "Wagons roll, I think." At his signal, the cavalcade moved out toward the first hole.

The day turned out not to be quite as Mickey had anticipated. It was, in fact, slightly worse.

Darren Duncan was revealed as a hideously poor player who specialised in sending gouts of sand into the air, swearing at putts that missed by yards and blaming his hapless caddy for passing him the wrong equipment. Besides struggling to play feebly enough to lose against Duncan, Mickey also had his hands full, metaphorically, fending off the advances of Carrina with some measure of courtesy whilst trying to stay true to the lecherous persona which he was supposed to be inhabiting. Had it not been for the occasional intervention of a sympathetic Stacie, who kept Carrina away from him as much as possible, Mickey would have been hard pressed.

His woes were only compounded by the fact that Albert, the architect of his misery, spent the whole of the wretched afternoon bowling around the course in the golf cart with Freddy Hall, the pair of them permanently engaged in roaring with laughter and drinking cold beer. For what felt like the millionth time, Mickey wondered what the hell Albert was really up to and whether it would be worth such suffering.

They reached the eighteenth hole with Darren in an ebullient frame of mind; ten shots later Mickey, unable to bear it any longer, "misfired" his ball into the rough - which at least meant that he could vent some of his feelings by hacking away in the undergrowth. A roar of victory informed him that Darren had at last been successful. Slinging his club wearily onto his shoulder Mickey trudged out onto the green to find his opponent, one arm around Carrina, grinning in triumph and generally behaving as though he'd won the Ryder Cup.

"Awright, mate. Gotcha, didn't I?"

"Yeah. You did." Mickey extended a grudging hand.

Darren shook it briefly before planting a quick kiss on the hapless Carrina. "Right. Back up the bar for a drink, yeah?"

"Sounds great!" called Albert from the cart.

Mickey dumped his clubs back into his bag and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, gathering his wits together. Darren had set off in the wake of Freddy and Albert, lugging Carrina with him, and Mickey felt he needed a few seconds break before he launched back into the fray.

Stacie made her way to his side, teetering slightly in Abigail's unsuitable shoes. "Bad luck, Tony!" she called, and patted his shoulder sympathetically as she reached him. In an undertone she said into his ear: "Albert says Joe needs to fall out with Tony tonight."

Startled, Mickey had to fight the impulse to stare at her and instead directed his gaze up the slope, shielding his eyes as though looking at something she had pointed out to him. "I can do that," he said. "Especially if it gets us a step closer to knowing what Albert's got in his head."

"I'll tell him." Stacie patted his shoulder again. "You're being very brave."

He glanced at her sideways. "Thank you so much…"

"Here you are, madam." Ash passed a glass of white wine to Stacie, who accepted with a smile.

"Thank you, Robert. And can I have a brandy and soda for my friend?"

As Ash busied himself with bottles and glasses, Stacie glanced over her shoulder. The bar had filled up nicely – as predicted, Darren had called in some of his drinking buddies and there were several groups of tanned, highlighted, six-packed, bestubbled young men making free with the club's facilities and attended by a gaggle of orange-skinned, white-stiletto-wearing women who all seemed to be clutching the same handbag. Darren and Mickey had been drawn over to a separate table by the artifices of Albert, who had set up a poker game and was busily recouping some of their expenses.

Ash set down Carrina's drink on the bar. "Is that everything, madam?"

"Yes, thanks," Stacie smiled at him again. There was no-one else in earshot. Still smiling in thanks she said softly: "Five minutes."

"Ok," he murmured back, not looking at her, and she was gone, weaving through the crowd towards Carrina's table, a drink in each hand.

Ash busied himself polishing a couple of glasses. Not till he'd started on the third did he glance across at Albert and give an almost imperceptible nod. A few seconds later he saw Albert catch Mickey's eye and incline his head in a barely visible gesture of confirmation, and despite himself a thrill went through Ash's soul. This was part of what had drawn him back the long con – the feeling of being part of a team who meshed so perfectly together that they could all but read each others minds. He'd watched Mickey, as Tony, setting up the scene – making sure he lost more hands than he won, seeming to drink a great deal, becoming more truculent and unpleasant as time went by – and out of the corner of his eye he watched on as the play unfolded before its unwitting audience.

"Screw this!" Mickey suddenly exploded to his feet, slinging his cards onto the table with a slap. "This deck's rigged!"

"Oh, siddown for Gawdsake, Tony!" snapped Albert from the other side of the table. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"Yeah? Well screw you, too, Joe. I'm sick of kissing ass to line your pockets." He broke into a mocking impersonation of Albert/Joe. "_Keep your zipper fastened. Don't mess with the ladies. Keep a low profile. Hold back on the booze_. What's next, huh, Joe? You wanna come with me to the bathroom, check I'm not picking up guys in there? Well, I've had it." He cast a contemptuous eye around the room, which had fallen utterly silent. "I'm not sitting here being ripped off by these pussies. I'm going to look for some real action." Shoving back his chair he made for the door.

"I'm warning you, Tony." Albert hadn't risen to his feet, wasn't even looking in Mickey's direction, but his voice was ice. "You walk out that door, you can find yourself a new agent."

"Yeah?" Mickey stopped and turned, considering. "Well, maybe it's about time I _had_ a new agent, huh, Joe? One who doesn't think I need to wear diapers." He levelled a finger at Stacie, who sat open-mouthed with shock. "Abigail – I'll call you tomorrow. We'll talk. Darren." He was backing toward the door now, grinning maniacally. "Wish I could say it was a pleasure. You're an asshole. Ciao." And he was gone.

Albert, his face like thunder, turned to Ash. "Robert…"

"On my way, Mr Miller. He won't be readmitted." Ash headed for the door and slipped through, closing it behind him. Outside, Mickey stood alone on the steps, taking deep gulps of the clear night air. The flock of Mercs, BMWs and Jags parked outside the clubhouse were silent and uninhabited. Ash leaned on the balustrade. "Feeling better?" he asked in his own voice.

Mickey grinned. "Much. Primal scream therapy's got a lot to recommend it. I'll see you back at the house."

"Cheers!" Ash delivered a swift slap on his shoulder and disappeared back indoors.

Mickey drew another long breath and, playing it safe, strode briskly down the driveway. Once he was sure he was completely alone he doubled back through the shrubbery towards the manor house and some blessed peace and quiet.

Back in the bar, Ash was hit by a wall of chattering voices and the sense that several cats were loose amongst these pampered pigeons. Darren Duncan had moved to sit by Albert's chair and, from the look of his gestures, was giving his forthright opinion of Tony's character. Stacie was gossiping with a delightedly shocked Carrina. Freddy was looking at Darren and Albert with a slightly suspicious expression which suggested he would rather they were sitting further apart. Moving with a smooth, controlled step, Ash made his way across to Albert's table and cleared his throat politely. "Excuse the interruption, Mr Miller. Mr Woodhall has been encouraged to leave the premises. I doubt he'll return."

"Thanks, Robert." As Ash moved away, Albert snorted. "I'm done with that jerk. Now." He riffled the cards in his hand and beamed around the table. "Let's play poker!"


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Deeper

Chapter 9: Deeper

Stacie had decided that this was probably the most surreal breakfast she'd ever had.

On the one hand, there was the complete normality of a family breakfast. Kellogg's Variety packs of cereal all over the table where everyone had claimed his or her favourite and left the Rice Krispies because they didn't taste of anything; Ash frying bacon in the kitchen next door; Mickey standing in the kitchen doorway drinking black coffee; Albert immersed in the newspaper and crunching on toast.

In contrast to the cosy domesticity of the scene, the setting was the beautifully renovated servants' quarters of Lansdowne Park, with stone flagged floors, a huge oak table and solid silver cutlery and coffee pots. And that didn't even begin to take into account the fact that as she ate her croissant with one hand she was tapping away on a calculator with the other, totalling up the value of the stacks of ten, twenty and fifty pound notes which were piled around her plate and wedged between the cruet and the toast-rack. Definitely Not Normal.

"How did we do?" Mickey asked, as Ash emerged from the kitchen bearing a plate of bacon sandwiches which he planted proudly in the centre of the table.

"Well…" she wiped her fingers on a beautifully-embroidered linen napkin and picked up her pad and pencil from beside her plate. "We've got Albert's poker winnings, plus the takings from the bar…"

"…that reminds me!" Ash broke in. He was rummaging in the inside pocket of his jacket, which was slung over the back of a chair. "Meant to give you this last night and forgot, so I brought it down this morning."

"What's this from?" Stacie unfolded another thick wad of cash, mostly ten pound notes.

"Bar tips." Ash attacked a sandwich with relish and then spoke indistinctly round his mouthful. "Surprising what people'll shove in your pocket if you treat them right when they've had a few."

She grinned as she counted the notes and scribbled figures on the pad. "As I was saying – we've got the poker winnings, the takings from the bar _and_ Ash's tips, less our expenses and wages for the guys from yesterday, less the five thousand we owe to Freddy Hall for the photo shoot. Which means we've got about three thousand pounds left for working capital."

"That's not bad going." Mickey shoved himself away from the door-frame and came over to sit down at the table, reaching out to fill his cup and take a sandwich from the pile. "The question is: Where do we go from here?"

An expectant silence fell. After it had extended for several seconds, Albert slowly lowered his newspaper. Stacie, opposite him at the other end of the table, had her chin propped on her interlaced fingers. Ash, to his left, was finishing his sandwich. Mickey, on the right, was sipping at his fresh cup of coffee. And all three of them were staring at him.

"Okay." Putting aside the paper, Albert regarded them through his spectacles. "Time to go to stage two. Which, incidentally, I haven't been keeping from you for mysterious reasons. I've been trying to get my ducks in a row, and I had a call yesterday which confirmed that they're all agreeably lined up. Hence last evening's little performance – which was very nicely done by the way," he added, glancing at Mickey, who made a little bow. "Now then." Albert pushed back his chair a little and leaned back, clasping his fingers across his shirt front. "Trivia question. Category: Sport. What's the claim to fame of Albert Johanneson?

Ash, the Human Compendium of Information that Might be of Use, didn't hesitate. "First black African footballer to play in an FA Cup winning team. Leeds United, 1965." he said.

"Correct. You win …" Albert looked around the room for inspiration and his eye lighted on the cake-stand on the dresser beside him "…a chocolate chip cookie. To raise your score to two cookies – what was his signing fee?"

"Wasn't one." Ash took another sandwich from the plate. "They paid for him to come over here from Johannesburg after his teacher tipped the club off."

"Two chocolate chip cookies are yours."

Mickey looked at Ash admiringly. "You know, you're very good."

Ash gave an exaggeratedly modest shrug of the shoulders. "I try."

"Okay, try this." Albert pushed his chair back a little and leaned his elbows on the table. "Who's the most recent African footballer to play in the FA cup final?"

"Even I know that one," Mickey cut in quickly. "Chelsea had two in their team when they won this year; Celestine Babayaro and George Weah."

"Actually three, strictly speaking." Ash countered. "Desailly's from Ghana. They paid four and a half million for him and about two million for Babayaro. Weah's on loan…"

"No more!" Mickey pleaded. "I know when I'm beaten! You win all the biscuits."

Grinning, Ash returned his attention to his breakfast.

Stacie was watching Albert through slightly narrowed eyes, thinking hard. "Who gets the money when a player changes clubs, then, Albert?" she asked.

"Ah!" Albert raised a forefinger in the manner of an elderly professor answering a pertinent query from a favourite student. "Now, there's the sixty-four thousand chocolate cookie question. Most of the money goes to the club who're selling the player, of course, and the player gets a wage. But then there's the question of how the deal's brokered."

He reached out, picked up the bowlful of sugar-lumps from the table and emptied its contents onto his saucer. "Watch carefully. The player has an agent, and the agent negotiates a contract between the player and the club."

As he spoke, he laid out the scenario on the table in front of him, using the milk jug to represent the player, the sugar basin as his agent and a side-plate for the club. "The agent approaches the club…" he toddled the sugar-bowl across to the side-plate "…and says he has a player he wants them to see. In the case of players from abroad it may well be a video tape that they see, as the club scouts won't have travelled to that country. If the club likes what they see, they negotiate with the agent. The agent goes back to the player, and the player signs."

Bowl, jug and plate were placed together in cosy harmony on the tablecloth. "The player's wage is agreed, and the agent gets a fee proportionate to the wages agreed for the player, which can be paid in instalments or in a lump sum, up front, at the start of the contract. So - the higher the wage the agent negotiates for his player, the higher his fee." Reaching over, he filled the bowl to the brim with lumps of sugar and sat back in his chair once more. "Now, children. _You_ tell _me_ – where do we go from here?"

Mickey, who had begun to glitter with suppressed excitement, shifted in his seat. "You tell Freddy it's a good job Tony Woodhall's off your hands, because you've found a really good foreign football player."

Albert nodded.

"An African player," Stacie put in swiftly.

"Correct so far."

"And you want to introduce him to a good local team, but you haven't got the connections..." Mickey went on.

"… but you know Freddy has got connections, and how about the two of you split the fee." Stacie added.

"And Freddy bites your arm off," Mickey concluded, "because last night he was worried that you were cosying up to Darren, who's his cash-cow. This way, he keeps Darren on his books _and_ he makes a profit on top."

Albert awarded them a brief round of applause. "I'm very glad to see my words of wisdom haven't been falling on stony ground," he said cheerfully. "To be absolutely specific, I'm going to ask him to get me into a meeting with Oscar Andersen, the chairman of Blackwall FC."

"Darren Duncan's club?" asked Stacie.

"The very same. Andersen has brought a lot of new money with him, and he's keen to spend it on making sure the team stay up."

"And they're a small club, so they'll be interested in new talent that no-one else has got word of. That makes sense." Mickey said.

Ash had fallen silent during the last few minutes' noisy exchange, leaning back in his seat and watching the others with a thoughtful expression. Now he sat forward a little and spoke up. "So we need to bring someone in to be the player, then?"

"I've got that all covered." Albert sounded confident. "Matthew will do it."

"Matt Diawara?" Ash flopped back in his chair, hands over his face. From behind his fingers a muffled voice groaned: "You've gotta be kidding me."

"No, Albert's right, Ash – he's perfect!" Mickey said. "His dad's Somali, so he speaks the language and he looks the part, and he's a good footballer. He played for his university team and he was their top scorer two years running. He's coaching the team he used to play for, so he's still fit..."

"Great – _and_ he's a barking nutcase!" Ash shot back, dropping his hands to fold his arms tightly across his chest.

"He can't be that bad, surely!" Stacie's tone was a mixture of amusement, curiosity and concern.

"He's not, not at all!" Mickey was grinning, though Ash still looked decidedly unconvinced. "He did a degree in drama a few years ago, and he works as a film extra. He's trying to get into stunt work, and he wants Ash to teach him The Flop…"

"… he'll have a long wait…" muttered Ash.

Mickey threw him a soothing look and went on: "… he can't get steady work yet, so he does a bit of grifting on the side. Says it beats working as a waiter!"

"He's a bloody adrenaline junkie!" Ash said, irritably. "He learns tricks off these two" - he waved a hand to indicate Mickey and the patiently-listening Albert – "and then he uses them to impress his daft student mates." He turned accusingly back to Mickey. "Remember when you taught him the Jamaican Switch and he got his head kicked in by a really, really pissed-off drug-dealer?"

Albert held up his hand to stem the flow. "I'll admit young Matthew has been a little indecorous in his practice of the finer arts of the grift in the past. But I understand that the redoubtable Rachel has him tight under control these days, so I don't think you need fear for him on that score."

"Who's Rachel?" Stacie had seen Mickey's ears prick up at the name.

"His half-sister." Albert replied. "She has a great deal more common-sense than Matthew, and she's much better-looking. Right, Michael?"

Mickey firmly ignored both the question and Albert's gently teasing tone and directed his next words to Ash. "I'll keep him in line, Ash, you have my word. And we won't need him to do anything dangerous. You can mock up some video footage of him playing, and he'll have some background to his character to learn, and that's it. You know we need him for this. Who else could we get?"

There was a short pause, followed by a resigned sigh, as Ash went over the possibilities in his head and came up empty. "Okay. Point taken. But for Gawd's sake, Mick, don't…"

"I won't. I won't teach him anything, I promise," reassured Mickey.

"Are we all agreed?" Albert looked at each face in turn and received a trio of nods; a _definitely_ from Mickey, a _why not?_ from Stacie and an _if we must, we must_ from Ash. He caught Ash's eye and looked at him enquiringly for a second, but received only a ting shrug of the shoulders by way of reply and rose to his feet, shaking crumbs from his napkin neatly onto his plate. "Then I'll go and make a call. He should be here in a couple of hours, and we can get the show on the road."

"Right." As Albert left the room, Ash stood up and grabbed another two sandwiches. "Better get started on this footage, then." And before either of the other two could speak he was gone.

Mickey and Stacie exchanged glances. "Is he okay?" Stacie asked.

"He worries." Mickey said. "He's the sensible one."

"Well, I suppose one of you has to be!" Stacie began to stack the counted notes into bundles and put them away in a black briefcase. Mickey set aside his plate and lent a hand. "So how well do you know Matthew?" Stacie asked him.

"Pretty well. I've worked with him a few times. The last two were while we were out of touch with Ash; Matt's grown up a lot since he and Ash last did a job together."

"Listen to you, old-timer!" she teased. "And what about Rachel?"

Mickey glanced up quickly. "Hmm?"

"You heard me. What about the pretty - and sensible - Rachel?"

"Oh, I've only met her once or twice. She doesn't approve of grifters. There!" Mickey handed her the last bundle of notes and set about stacking plates. As he cleared the pile off the table and disappeared into the kitchen, Stacie watched him go and wondered about Rachel. With a little sigh, she snapped the briefcase shut.

After all she'd heard Stacie wasn't at all sure what to expect from Matt Diawara, but in the end she was pleasantly surprised. A tall, gangling youth with a leather jacket, braided hair clattering with beads and a cheery smile appeared in their midst later that day, slapped Mickey on the back, shook hands enthusiastically with Albert, and on being introduced to Stacie, enveloped her hand in a warm, firm grasp and said in a rich, slightly accented voice: "Good to see someone with some class round here."

Ash emerged from his lair shortly afterwards carrying his laptop and with a video camera slung over his shoulder. Much to Stacie's relief he betrayed no sign of his earlier antagonism and gripped Matt's hand with a matey: "All right, kid?" before setting up his gear and taking his place beside her on the couch.

Albert stood commandingly at the front of the room with the others seated around him in a loose horseshoe.

"We all know our scenario," he began, "so the first job is to draw Freddy Hall in a little deeper. Ash?"

"Yeah, well…" Ash sat up and locked his hands across the back of his head, staring at the laptop in front of him. "I've got clips here I've downloaded from two or three matches. What I'll need to do is shoot a few minutes of Matt doing his stuff, then edit it together, treat it a bit so it all looks like the same bit of footage, and we should have a passable tape for you to show to Freddy."

"Cool." Matt, almost horizontal in a leather armchair, his long legs sprawled across the carpet, gave a lazy thumbs-up. "You puttin' little red circles round me like on Match of the Day?"

Ash was unruffled by the interruption. "I was thinking of sticking a "For Sale" sign on the back of your 'ead." He spun the laptop round to reveal the video playing on the screen as he continued: "Once I've got visuals we can dub a bit of sound in, crowd noise and whatever."

"Good." Albert nodded. "Michael – it's important that Tony Woodhall stays in circulation for a while. If you vanish off the face of the earth it may raise suspicion."

"Not a problem," Mickey said. "I can pop up in a few nightclubs and give everyone in the vicinity my low opinion of you as often as you'd like me to."

"Very generous of you. Stacie…"

"I'll phone Freddy. I was going to ring in a flap to ask if he'd heard from you."

"That's good. And if he wants to meet, make the arrangements. He's our way to the top, and we need to keep him sweet." He looked around the group. "On with the motley!"


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Old Scores**

"Why is it always cold at football matches?" Stacie wanted to know. Coat-collar turned up against an unseasonably chilly breeze and a spatter of light rain, she stood on the touchline clutching a microphone in her hand, ready to do a piece to camera when she was required.

Mickey, playing the producer in shades, a sheepskin jacket and a neat goatee beard, patted her shoulder sympathetically. "Sometimes we have to suffer for our art." He squinted across the pitch to where Ash was setting up the last camera near the goal mouth in the hopes of catching Matt in the act of making a classy strike. "What time was Albert meeting with Freddy Hall?"

"About half past two, he said." Stacie glanced at her watch. "Hopefully by the time he gets back we'll be in the warm with a cup of hot chocolate…" She broke off as Ash came across, hands in his pockets.

"That's it all rigged up. You ready, Stace? If we crack on now and we've made a start when they're coming on it'll look a bit flashier."

Stacie nodded and took up her position, a bright smile on her face and the mic in her hand. Ash stepped behind the camera, checked the focus and gave her the thumbs-up. "Good afternoon, and welcome to our live report from the training ground at the University of Central London, where local students are doing their part to raise money for a worthy cause. This afternoon sees the university team taking part in the filming of a DVD which will be distributed to local primary schools as part of a campaign to promote sport and health awareness amongst the capital's youngsters…"

As her spiel continued the team, lead by Matt, appeared from the changing-rooms and Mickey strode across to meet them.

"All right, Mr Buckingham?" Matt gave a cheery wave and jogged up to shake Mickey's hand before leading him across to the other players.

"This is extremely good of you all." Mickey shook hands all round. "We've arranged a voucher for free drinks at a local bar…"

* * *

_  
_

_"Free drinks? For students?" Eddie was appalled._

_"It's a good deal, Eddie." Matt leaned forward across the bar in a confiding manner. "It's supposed to be exclusive to pubs round the university but I thought you'd like a piece of the action." Furtively he produced a small ticket and passed it over, concealing it in his hand. "They give these out," he continued, sotto voce, "and the students can only get them redeemed in certain places. They go there for the freebies and then end up staying on and drinking all night. It's part of a scheme to draw students out into the community and get them mixing with the locals."_

_Eddie glanced toward the door and asked in a low voice: "So how'd you get on the end of this, then?"_

_Matt tapped his nose knowingly with a long finger. "Still got connections there. I coach one of the football teams, and their striker tipped me off – asked me if I wanted some tickets. I thought if I added you to the list I could bring a few mates down one night, have a bit of an evening." He glanced over his shoulder. "I'll bring a good crowd – you should make a bit of a killing if you're lucky."_

_Eddie considered. "Okay, yeah. Sounds like a good idea. Let me know what night and I'll buy in some extras."_

_"Cool!" Matt winked, shook Eddie's hand and loped out of the door, beads clattering on his shoulders._

_"Managed all on your own, then?" Stacie materialised from a doorway and fell into step with him as he strolled down the street._

_"Yeah, no problem. Eddie likes me, cos I'm rubbish at card tricks. He wins about twenty quid every time I practice on him." They walked a few paces in silence before Matt added: "Probably better if he doesn't connect you lot to this anyway – he's not going to be too happy the next morning."_

_"Why? Is there likely to be any damage?"_

_"Stacie..." Matt said patiently, "we're talking about free beer and a student football team here."_

_Stacie grimaced. "Poor Eddie…"_

* * *

"…and the lovely Alicia will be signing autographs as soon as she's finished her piece to camera."

A cheer went up amongst the small crowd of young men as Stacie looked over her shoulder and gave a twinkly-eyed wave before signing off with a flourish and walking across to join them. As she all but disappeared under their boisterous welcome, Mickey made his way back to the touchline where Ash was taking down the camera. "All right?"

"Yeah." Deftly folding the tripod, Ash picked up it and the camera. "Tell him not to mess about too much." He jerked his head in Matt's direction. "We want it to look like a match, not a one-man show." Mickey opened his mouth to reply, but Ash was already heading in the direction of the waiting van. He'd managed to acquire it for an afternoon from the local news team, thanks to a senior technician who owed him a favour and had put the van down as being in the workshop for a service.

Mickey stared after his departing friend with a slight frown on his face, which he hurriedly smoothed away on hearing someone approaching.

"Only me!" Stacie arrived at his elbow. She followed the direction of his gaze and sighed. "There's really something bothering him, isn't there?"

Mickey made a non-committal sound as he looked over at the pitch, received the thumbs-up from Matt and turned back to wave across at the truck.

"I thought maybe it was the row over Matt joining," Stacie ventured, "but..."

Mickey shook his head. "Ash doesn't bear a grudge. He said his piece on that, he was outvoted, and that's the end of it as far as he's concerned. Anyway, he likes Matt. No - whatever it is, it's between him and Albert." He thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. "If they want input from us, they'll tell us."

"Couldn't we, you know – push things on a bit?" Stacie hooked her arm through Mickey's and about-faced them both so that they could show an interest in the game as well as continue their conversation. He looked at her enquiringly and she elaborated: "Why don't we go out, the three of us, and leave them to it? Give them some space to talk, if that's what they need to do."

On the far side of the pitch, Matt neatly intercepted the ball, jinked his way past a couple of midfielders, dribbled past the defence and stuck the ball through the goalie's legs into the back of the net. As he applauded the goal, Mickey considered Stacie's suggestion. "Couldn't hurt, could it?"

*********************************************

Never one to let the grass grow under his feet, Mickey made his move that night. With the filming done, the van returned, Albert looking very pleased at the results of his meeting with Freddy Hall and Matt the proud scorer of two more goals, Mickey suggested that he, Matt and Stacie go out to the cinema. Once they had departed Albert found a bottle of brandy and two glasses and installed himself and Ash in the library for a quiet evening.

Although they had pretty much transferred operations to the Lansdowne Park whilst setting up the store, they had been cautious about which rooms they occupied. The library was at the back of the main house and looked out onto the stable-yard, which meant that they could use it without fear of lights being seen from the road at night. It was a comfortable room which smelled of wooden floors and leather bindings and its atmosphere was soothing to twitchy nerves. Albert settled himself at the reading table in the centre of the room, a copy of The Times open at the announcements page and a red biro in his hand with which he began marking items of possible future interest. Ash, who liked to take the opportunity to top up his store of random useful information whenever possible, pulled down a large book on Japanese history and customs and took it across to read in one of the armchairs by the window.

A long, companionable silence was broken by Albert's voice: "Something on your mind, Ash?"

Ash glanced up from the page. "No … no, nothing much."

"Good book?"

"Yeah, pretty interesting."

"Only you've been on page eighty-seven for the last fifteen minutes."

Ash sighed, seemed to gather his thoughts and finally come to a decision. "Look – I hate to say this, Albert, but I think we're over-reaching ourselves."

Albert slowly removed his spectacles and rested his elbows on the table, saying nothing.

"Going after Oscar Andersen. Who's not only the chairman of Blackwall FC, and Darren Duncan's boss, but happens to be Charlie Kane's brother-in-law." Ash looked his friend straight in the eye for the first time in two days. "You didn't think I'd miss that one, did you?"

* * *

_"All right, Ashley?"_

_Had Ash not been sunk in morose thought he would have noticed that he was being followed. As it was, he was ignorant of the fact until he heard the voice behind him. The use of his full name was a dead giveaway; no-one else called him anything but Ash, ever. He was anticipating trouble even as he turned his head to see who'd spoken. When he saw Charlie Kane's smile he knew he'd been right. He nodded unencouragingly. "Charlie."_

_"Charles to you. Been looking for you, matey. You're a hard man to find."_

_"Busy." Ash began walking again, facing straight ahead._

_Kane matched his pace, snakeskin boots clattering on the paving stones. "Got a job for you. Nice easy number. Ten grand."_

_"I'm working."_

_"Cash."_

_"Sorry, Charles, but I'm working. Can't help you."_

_Kane was a big man; his slightly longer legs enabled him to take two strides that put him in front of Ash and blocked his path._

_"Don't think you quite get it, matey. Not asking you. Telling. You're going to do me a job, and I'm going to pay you ten K. Cash. Then we're all happy."_

_Ash stepped back slightly so that he could meet Kane's gaze without having to look up. "I get it, "matey", but I'm saying no. I promised the wife. Okay?"_

_"That's very sweet. She's a spirited lady, your missus. I can see why you wouldn't want to upset her." Ash took a half pace to the left and Kane shifted to his right without pausing for breath. "So you wouldn't want to have to go home and tell her you'd lost that nice legit thing you've found yourself, would you?" Kane reached inside his jacket and extracted a thick notebook bound in honey-coloured leather, which he consulted theatrically. "William Robson, security guard. Not very imaginative, is it? Only take a call. Tell William Robson's boss there's no such person. Bye bye Bill, and arrividerci Ashley. And if you were back inside, who'd look after June then? It's a rough old world these days, Ashley – you never know…"_

_Ash was shorter by half a head, and lighter by around a stone, but he moved so quickly that Kane, caught by surprise, found himself suddenly pinned against the wall, Ash's forearm across his throat._

_"You don't change, do you, you tosser?" Ash ground out between clenched teeth. "Don't you ever get tired of shafting people?"_

_Kane's eyes were bulging slightly from lack of oxygen, but he still managed to appear triumphant. "Thought you were above violence these days. Left all that behind when you started poncing about with Albert Stroller?"_

_"I can still work out how to rearrange your face without referring to the manual."_

_"If it makes you feel better. Long as you're ready for those two…" Kane managed to twitch his head fractionally sideways to indicate a couple of heavily-built knuckle-draggers who were moving rapidly in their direction. As they closed in, Kane smiled. "Do yourself a favour, Ashley." His voice was becoming a reedy croak. "Both know you're going to do this job."_

_Ash held his grip long enough to make Kane's face turn an interesting shade of dark purple, then released him and stepped back, breathing heavily. The goons were at his shoulders, but Kane warned them off with a wave of his hand and leaned forward, catching his breath. He coughed several times, spat on the pavement and straightened up._

_"Got a delivery to make. Your place of employment. All you do is say nothing, do nothing, check nothing. Got it? Easiest money you ever made, matey. Old rope."_

_Seething with frustration, Ash glared. "Stuff the money, Charlie. If I do this, you get off my case. This is the last one, you understand?"_

_"Loud and clear." Kane straightened his jacket and gave a maddening smile. "Pay you anyway. Never know when you might need it."_

_With a last glower at Kane, Ash turned and walked away. He was half-expecting Kane to unleash the heavies but no-one made a move to follow. He told himself it could have been worse – June didn't need to know, and ten grand would be welcome enough. He'd do the job, take the money, and be rid of Kane for good._

_Not until he opened the door of the flat three weeks later to find a policeman on the step did he realise how thoroughly Kane had stitched him up._

* * *

Folding his hands on the table in front of him, Albert leaned forward. His usual air of affability had evaporated and there was steel in his voice and in his eyes as he said: "Kane's a snake. He waited till you were down and then he took a kick at you. He fitted you up and he put you in jail. He doesn't walk away from that."

Ash sighed again and set down his book with a thud. "It just feels like one throw too many. This is going to be a good crew, Albert, but at the moment it's three kids and two old lags and we're green as grass."

"Mickey's nearly thirty years old," Albert ticked off the list on his fingers as he spoke. "Stacie's sharp as a tack and she's shown her quality already. Matt will do as he's told and he can think on his feet. I'll ignore the fact that you've just referred to me as an "old lag", and instead point out that you and I have years of skill and experience to add to the mix."

"It's ancient history now, anyway."

"He has it coming," Albert insisted. "I tell you, Ash – it's a gift from the gods. This whole thing dropped right into place. I've had Darren Duncan in my sights for months, watching the stories get wilder and wilder. When I started looking into the club, I hit paydirt. Petersen's crooked as a nine-dollar bill. There's a blind eye turned to a large quantity of recreational drug-use at Blackwall FC and in the social scene around the players, and those drugs come through Charles Kane. If we do this, we make Duncan and Hall look like the idiots they are, take Petersen's cash and we give Charlie Kane an unexpected pay-cut, all in one juicy package. A once-in-a-lifetime offer." He broke off, seeing Ash still unconvinced, and his voice became gentler. "Okay - if you feel it's necessary, we can put it to the vote. Blackwall's not an essential part of the plan; if the others feel I'm gilding the lily I'll get Hall to introduce me elsewhere and we'll just run the football scam."

Ash sighed again, knowing it was the best he was going to get. "Cheers, Albert."

***********************************

"You shared a cell with _Charlie Kane_??? Wow – that's really cool!" Matt registered Albert's reproving look, Mickey's hastily-covered smile, Stacie's elbow in his ribs and Ash's wince at the memory all at one moment, and hastily backtracked "… I mean, he's a bit hardcore, yeah?"

"He's a gangster," Mickey said, the smile fading from his face. "Recently he's started courting respectability by involving himself in legitimate businesses…"

"…like football clubs, for example?" Stacie was half a step ahead once again.

Albert nodded. "He's using Blackwall FC as a channel to filter drugs out into the wider world. No brown envelopes in backstreets for this boy."

"He's the real deal." Smoke wisped from Ash's direction as he spoke. "If we mix it with him we're likely to end up kneecapped."

"So what's the story, Albert?" Matt asked.

"It's not my story to tell." Albert looked at Ash, who drew hard on his cigarette and exhaled, watching the blue coils dissipate lazily into the air.

"Okay. So," – another quick drag – "inside, it's what you know and who you know, yeah? And I've always been able to find out who wants what and I can usually find the someone else who's got it. Anyway." He stubbed out the end of the cigarette in the ashtray and took a quick drink. "I kept Charlie in fags and dirty magazines and he watched my back a bit. Mutual arrangement. Then when I got out, he called me and said he'd got work, so I did bits, over the years. Forgeries, moody notes, a bit of fencing – but he was drifting more and more into hard stuff. I started to back off a bit…"

"…and he didn't like it." Mickey was leaning forward, elbows on knees, listening intently, watching his friend.

"No. Well, they don't, these control-freak types. It was a like being an extra in the bloody Godfather. And when I teamed up with you and Albert, he was livid. Came round my place, gave me grief about how I was part of his crew, I'd betrayed him – the full monty."

"What did you do?" Stacie asked.

Ash shrugged. "Told him to get lost. Said I didn't like the way he was going and I'd got other plans. Didn't go down too well." He stared at the table for a moment. "And once I met June, well … she couldn't stand 'im, so that was basically that as far as I was concerned."

"A woman of taste," Albert remarked mildly.

"Yeah, sort of. She went out with him for a bit. I mean, they'd split up before I met 'er, but only a few months before, I think."

"Oh, come on!" Matt pointed both index fingers at him gleefully. "Nicking Charlie Kane's ex – even you've got to admit that's cool."

Ash grinned a little into his drink. "Charles didn't think so!"

"So what happened?" Mickey knew there had to be more to it than this.

"He came after me, in the end." Ash spoke seriously now, and none of the others moved to interrupt him. "I'd married June, tried to go straight, got a job as a security guard." Mickey caught the tiniest glance flashing between Ash and Albert and knew there was something not being said, but held his peace. "He looked me up, told me he'd got one last job, and I was doing it for him. If I didn't, he'd grass me up to my boss and go after June. So I did it, and he set me up with the cops instead."

"That's how you ended up inside this last time?" Mickey asked. "Because Kane set you up?"

Ash nodded.

Stacie was bolt upright in her seat, her eyes flashing. "Right. I say we get this bastard!"

"No, no, no. Look…" Ash rubbed his forehead wearily. "I don't want you lot pulled into a revenge job…"

"It's not just about that, though, is it?" Mickey put in. They turned to look at him. "If Kane's got a grudge against you, Ash, he's got a way to all of us. A crew of grifters is a unit – he knows you, he knows Albert. He's never met me, but he knows my name. How long before he gets to the rest of us?"

"If we can put Blackwall FC on the front page for financial irregularities," Albert said, "then Kane is going to be too busy cutting ties to the club, keeping himself out of the picture and trying to find a new source of income to worry about us for some time to come."

"So we get back at Kane, keep him out of our hair, reveal Darren Duncan and Freddy Hall to the world as the total prats they are, while making a pile of money out of Blackwall's chairman … and Albert becomes a grifting legend," Stacie summarised, unwittingly echoing Albert's words to Ash a few hours before.

Ash opened his mouth to begin a protest and, finding himself in a logical dead end, changed it to a plea. "Okay. All right. But only to get him off our backs. Nothing else."

Albert nodded. "This isn't just some scheme off the back of a matchbook, Ash. It's a job, like any other, and I don't play percentages. Ever."

"I thought you were a gambler?" Stacie teased.

Mickey snorted. "Have you ever played him at cards?"

Albert rose to his feet and patted Ash briefly on the shoulder. "It's been a long day. I think we should turn in, and make for an early start." Pausing in the doorway he added: "Stacie, you and Matthew need to go shopping tomorrow – he looks far too much the student to be a soccer player."

Stacie regarded Matt with an assessing eye. "Don't worry, Albert – I'll soon bling him up!"

Albert raised a hand in acknowledgement and disappeared in the direction of his room.

Matt unfolded himself from his chair. "I'm all yours, Stace – but the hair's off-limits, right?"

"Don't worry!" She reached up to put a reassuring arm across his shoulders. "The ethnic look's very now."

"Cheeky mare!" he said good-naturedly.

Catching Mickey's eye, Stacie slapped Matt on the back. "Come on then, student. Show me round your wardrobe and let's see what I've got to work with."

"What? After you dissed my 'do?" He squinted down at her. "Only if I can have a fake Rolex as part of the makeover."

As they bickered their way down the corridor in the direction of the kitchen, Mickey turned to Ash. "You're still not happy. What is it?"

There was a long silence, born of a sudden knowledge that this was uncharted territory. Albert was the leader, Ash his lieutenant, Mickey the up-and-coming talent. That was how it had always been. Now here they were, behind Albert's back, after a group decision had been made and agreed upon, with Mickey's treasonous question hanging in the air between them.

Ash shoved his hand in his pocket, drew out his cigarettes, took one from the packet, lit it, inhaled. "I'm scared, Mick." And with three words the laws of the universe shifted a little and there was no going back.

Mickey walked quietly to the door and closed it. Then he came back and sat down opposite his friend, leaning forward intently. "You think Albert's made a mistake?"

"Not with the plan. The set-up's genius. But ever since he said Anderson's name the other day… I've been over and over it, I can't see the flaw, but then I get this image in my head…" He stared at the closed door, through which the sound of Stacie laughing at one of Matt's jokes could be heard, his blue eyes clouded with worry. "Kane's a nutter. Serious. He uses people, gets inside your head. I've known him for years, thought I could handle him, and he smoked me like a kipper. Messing with him just isn't safe. If he gets a sniff of the idea that any of us are part of this we've got real trouble, Mick, I mean it. And Albert…" he groped for the words whilst Mickey waited patiently. The cigarette was almost a stub before Ash spoke again. "It's not that I think Albert's wrong," he said finally. "Just – he wants it to go right so much – you know?"

Another silence followed, long enough for Ash to grind out his cigarette in the ashtray, light a second and smoke half of it. Then Mickey stood up, walked over to the sideboard and poured two large drinks. Crossing back to the table he handed one glass to Ash and took a hefty swig from the second. "Okay…" he said. The conversation that followed lasted far into the small hours of the morning.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:Sharp Moves

"Freddy – hi, how are ya?" Albert fairly breezed in through Fat Freddy's office door, bonhomie rolling off him in waves and Stacie gliding elegantly in his wake. "The footage came through – you wait'll you see this kid in action!"

"Awright, Joe?" Freddy hastened out from behind a gleaming mahogany desk to shake Albert by the hand. "… and Miss Hunter! Didn't expect you 'ere. Thought you'd 'ave yer 'ands full with Laughin' Boy."

Stacie rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't! He's been an absolute nightmare, honestly! But I finally got him booked on a flight back to California; I dropped him at Heathrow before I came over here so by now he's the airline's problem, not mine!" She perched herself neatly on the edge of a chair and swept her hair back from her forehead. "God, he's been hideous! Ever since that row the other night he's been all over the city, drinking himself legless in horrible clubs and saying the most ghastly things. Keeping him out of the papers has been a full time job, I can tell you!"

"Pity he's not more like your kid … that Darren guy," Albert mused, settling himself in a leather chair by Freddy's desk. "Now there's a boy who appreciates good advice. Listens to what you say." He tapped his finger on the desk for emphasis. "If I had him on my books, I could…"

"So what about this Somali bloke, then?" Freddy broke in, eager to turn the conversation away from what might potentially be achieved were Darren Duncan to change management. "Might be able to sort somethin' out, if he's anythin' like you've been sayin'. Not promisin' anythin', mind."

"Well, I'm no expert in how soccer is played," Albert said as Stacie opened her attaché case and drew out a video cassette, "but I know a player when I see one. And this kid's got moves."

Stacie handed the cassette to Freddy who leaned over to push it into the machine and turned on the TV. "You say it was this bloke's cousin what rang you?" Freddy asked, fiddling with the remote.

"Yeah. He plays basketball for a university team in the US and he's a fan of Tony's." Albert sat back in his seat a little and straightened his jacket. "Contacted me a while ago, said did I know a soccer agent who'd sign his cousin; the kid wanted to play soccer in the US. When I knew I was coming over here I called the guy back, asked could he send me some footage of the kid playing. Thought I might be able to make a contact and do the guy a favour, but I don't mind telling ya, Freddy – I'm holdin' on to him myself. This kid's gonna make me a fortune."

The screen brightened and Ash's doctored footage appeared; shots of Matt bustling about the university training pitch had been seamlessly intercut with the action Ash had downloaded from websites and copied from other videos. Freddy watched intently, frowning a little at the screen, while Albert and Stacie made appropriate positive noises. As the tape ended there was a short silence. This was the moment of truth – Freddy would either swallow the bait or turn it down; if he took the latter course then the whole elaborate edifice of Albert's con would collapse about their ears and they'd be back to square one. Freddy scratched his ear thoughtfully. "Watchoo say this kid's name is?" he asked at length.

"Mamadou Sylla," Albert replied.

Freddy nodded. "Fit that on the back of the shirt all right, then." He scratched his ear again and flicked something in the direction of the bin. Then he placed both meaty palms on the table and looked at Albert. "Mr Andersen'll want ter meet 'im. Won't spend money if he ain't seen the merchandise. And Les is gonna want ter see 'im train. They're both in all day today - I can fix the meetings if you can get the kid 'ere."

Stacie didn't even realise she'd been holding her breath until it rushed out of her in a silent sigh of relief. "I think we can arrange that, Mr Hall," she said brightly. "We've got him a trial for Marseilles lined up, so he's the wrong side of the channel at the moment, but obviously we'd want to give you first refusal if…"

"… if we can reach the right deal here." Albert put in, grinning knowingly.

"You and me understand each other, Joey." Hall levelled a chubby finger at Albert. "I can get you a good contract for this kid, and we can all come out of it very sweet - you know what I'm saying?"

"I sure do, Freddy. I sure do."

****************************

Force was a health club, so exclusive that most of London's population were completely unaware of its existence. Its unprepossessing entrance was tucked away down a quiet side-street not far from the equally exclusive Napoleon's club, and the two establishments held several influential patrons in common; some went from an all-night session at Napoleon's to detox in the sauna at Force, whilst others went the other way and relaxed in Napoleon's well-stocked bar following a workout in Force's gym. Whatever the direction of their flow, both sets of clients could be assured of absolute discretion and guaranteed privacy – no cameras, reporters or paparazzi would trouble their leisure hours, and no awkward questions would be asked. This policy accounted for the huge popularity of both institutions amongst a certain class of consumer who, for a variety of reasons, felt the need to misbehave on occasion without the necessity of informing the wider world of their exploits.

"Morning!" Mickey called cheerfully to the receptionist as he advanced across the marble-tiled floor. "We had a call to say there's a blockage in the drain in the gent's changing rooms?"

"Oh, yes! Gosh, you were prompt!" the receptionist smiled gratefully at Mickey as Ash and Matt, clad identically to Mickey in neatly-pressed and spotless blue overalls, followed him in through the door carrying bags of equipment and wearing their most efficient manner.

"We'll get straight on, then – don't want to hold you up for too long. We'll have to close the area down while we're working, so if you can ask people to wait here till we let you know it's OK? Thanks. Is it through here? Great! Come on, lads!" Mickey disappeared through the gleaming double doors in the direction indicated by the receptionist, the others hard on his heels, and burst noisily in through the doors of the changing area. "Anyone home?" Silence answered his cry and they paused for a few seconds, listening. Mickey lowered his voice. "Better do a quick check."

Moving swiftly and silently they swung into action. Ash produced two "Closed – cleaning in progress" signs and a roll of tape from his bag and set about closing the access doors and taping across the frames. Matt did a hurried circuit of the cubicles, swishing curtains aside and opening doors to ensure that they were alone and unobserved. Mickey opened Matt's bag and produced two small, neat rolls of tools which were unlikely to be anything to do with unblocking a drain.

"No sign of anyone in here, Mickey," Matt reported back and Mickey nodded in satisfaction.

"Okay. The receptionist won't let anyone in that door…" Mickey indicated the entrance they'd used, "so we need you over there to stop anyone coming back from a session."

As Matt took up his post by the door leading through to the pool and treatment rooms, Mickey began trying the doors on the bank of lockers which filled the middle of the room. Those which gave under his touch he left standing open; those which resisted were dealt with by Ash, who had taken three or four small tools from the roll and was deftly picking the lock of each unopened door as he followed Mickey along the row. Once all eleven locks were released, the two of them commenced a swift search of the contents, and it was Ash who eventually exclaimed: "Got it!"

Mickey drew a small camera from his pocket and commenced photographing Ash's find. Ash glanced anxiously at the door as from beyond it came the sound of Matt's voice in cheery conversation: "I'd go back in the pool for a time if I were you, sir. We may be a few minutes yet and you look very cold… no, just a small blockage, but we don't want backflow, sir. Most unpleasant. Yes, I think that would be very sensible, sir. And to you!"

"Done!" Mickey announced, replacing their prize neatly back in its place, and Ash quickly re-secured the locker doors whilst Mickey lifted the cover of the drain in the floor and removed the wad of rags that Ash had stuffed down there three hours previously. Matt took the tape off the doors and collected the signs, Mickey and Ash packed away the tools and the three of them set off at a brisk pace toward reception.

As they swung out of the double doors Mickey gave the receptionist a jaunty wave and a smile and called: "All sorted. Just a foreign body in the pipe. Amazing what people drop down the drain!"

Safely outside, the three of them loaded their gear into a little white van borrowed from Matt's flatmate and trundled off into the traffic with Matt at the wheel. On the back seat, Mickey rummaged in his pocket, produced the camera and handed it to Ash. "Keep it safe," he said.

"No worries on that score!" Ash slid the camera into his hip pocket and patted it gently.

Matt's phone began to ring as they rounded a bend and he grabbed it to prevent it falling off the seat beside him. "See who that is, will you, Mickey?"

Mickey took the phone and took a quick look at the caller display. "It's Stacie. Hold on…" He pressed the 'answer' button. "Yep. Yes, no problem. Yes … well, I think we can. Hang on." He looked across at Ash and mouthed: "Can we get a limo?"

"Is the Pope Polish?" Ash produced a cigarette from the top pocket of his boiler-suit and lit it, grinning.

Mickey turned back to the phone. "That's a yes … hang on again…" he glanced up once more. "By five o'clock this afternoon?"

Ash exhaled and nodded. "Ask her does she want black or white."

"See, now you're just showing off!" Matt called from the front seat, and Mickey made a shushing motion with his hand.

"Not a problem, Stacie. Yes … okay, bye!" Mickey flicked off the phone with a flourish. "You've got an interview, Matt – apparently you're flying over from Paris this afternoon and arriving in style in your chauffeur-driven limousine, no gesture too overblown and all that…"

Matt gave a whoop of joy and punched the air, prompting a chorus of "Watch the road!" from the other two. Grinning like a loon he put both hands back on the wheel and did a celebratory shimmy in his seat instead.

"Okay…" Mickey was re-working tactics in his head as he spoke. "Matt, you'd better drop us both off and go and get changed. Ash will pick you up and take you over to Freddy's office and I'll go and see Greasy Den on my own."

The van turned down a side-road and from there into an industrial estate. Once they were in a suitably anonymous area it pulled up and Mickey and Ash climbed out. They had stowed the overalls in the back of the van; Ash was now smart in a white shirt, black tie and dark grey trousers, his ensemble finished off with flashy black shoes which sported a silver buckle. Mickey, by contrast, wore a baseball cap, T-shirt and a leather bomber jacket with jeans and hi-top trainers and was sporting a gold hoop in his right earlobe.

Matt gave them an extravagant wave as the van pulled away and Mickey shook his head with amused tolerance as he unwrapped a stick of chewing-gum and shoved it into his mouth. "Was I ever that young and stupid?" he asked.

Ash squinted after the departing vehicle and considered. "Nah. Seventeen going on forty-five, you were."

They walked purposefully back toward the main road, an oddly mismatched couple in their contrasting attire. As they came within a hundred yards or so Mickey, with a brief nod to his friend, peeled away, crossed the street and headed for the nearest bus-stop, his brisk, straight-backed walk now a streetwise lope.

Left to his own devices, Ash paused to light a fresh cigarette and then flipped his phone out of his pocket. "That Tony? 'Ello, mate, it's Ash. You got a limo in? Well, what's up with it? Nah, that'll be all right; pack it with newspaper and we'll bung a bit of gloss over it…" Still talking into the phone he held up his hand, cigarette between his fingers, to hail a passing taxi, then shoved the cigarette into his mouth so that he could scramble into the back. "Edgeware, please, mate," he said to the driver, and then into the phone: "Five hundred? For a moody motor with a hole in the back bumper? You 'avin a laugh?"

**********************

In keeping with the club's up and coming status the offices at Blackwall FC were small but modern and well-appointed. The building itself was a passably imposing stretch of smoked glass and steel, built into the range of structures which formed part of the complex surrounding the new stadium.

Freddy had been as good as his word; a few quick phone-calls had confirmed that both Oscar Andersen and Leslie Morrison, Blackwall's dour Northern manager, were on site and available that afternoon. A meeting-room had been commandeered, the video shown, drinks consumed, charm offensives launched, discussions undertaken. And now the five of them were clustered in the foyer awaiting the imminent arrival of Joe Miller's Great New Find.

The limousine swept gleaming up to the doors. Stacie hastened forward on welcoming duties and Ash, cap pulled well down over his eyes and sporting a luxuriant false moustache to avoid any chance of Freddy spotting his very close resemblance to Robert the bar-man, stepped smartly out to open the door.

From the limo's Moroccan-leather depths appeared a vision of ostentatious consumerism. Six feet of attractive young African footballer stood stretching in the sunshine, his long braids clattering about the shoulders of his Paul Smith suit. A heavy gold signet ring gleamed on his left little finger and an even heavier gold watch coiled about his wrist. Square-toed Oxford dress shoes, polished to a high gleam, peeked out from under his immaculate turn-ups and Gucci shades in black and gold concealed his eyes. A leather holdall swinging in his grasp, Matt stooped slightly to kiss Stacie on the cheek. Albert's eyes twinkled; Stacie and Matt had surpassed themselves in the creation of Mamadou Sylla.

Freddy Hall, not a subtle man, was suitably impressed. "Awright, son?" He advanced eagerly to shake Matt's hand as Stacie ushered Matt forward with a graceful gesture. Morrison followed more slowly, weighing up Matt with a keen eye, and finally Andersen, tall and blonde and chilly as a polar sea, offered his hand with a distant air.

Matt returned the handshakes with polite self-assurance. "Mr Morrison, Mr Andersen," he announced, his voice rich with the accent of his ancestral roots, "It's a great honour to meet you both. I am extremely excited. To be here in London is a wonderful thing."

Freddy beamed. "It's good to 'ave you 'ere, son. 'Ad a good trip, did yer?"

"Excellent, thank you." Matt twinkled dazzlingly at Stacie. "Miss Hunter has been most thoughtful and efficient."

Stacie smilingly inclined her head and then turned to Les. "Mr Sylla's brought his kit, Mr Morrison – you said you'd like to see him on the training pitch?"

"If you feel up to it, lad?"

Matt nodded obligingly. "It is what I expected," he said. "And after the flight it would be good to stretch my muscles a little. I am sorry not to be fully match-fit…"

"He's had a long break," Albert put in, "Picked up an injury at the end of last season and missed a coupla games. But all set and raring to go now, right, kiddo?"

"Certainly, Mr Miller." Matt nodded as Albert clapped him enthusiastically on the back. "The injury healed well and I've been training for six weeks now without any trouble."

"Righto, then." Morrison swung open a blonde-wood door and indicated the route to the players' changing-rooms. "You go and get yer kit on and we'll meet yer on the pitch. Carlos is waiting in there for yer… first team coach," he added to Albert and Stacie as Matt disappeared down the corridor. "I don't do much on the pitch these days. Physique in't what it were." He slapped his rotund abdomen ruefully as he set off in the direction of the pitch. "Right – let's see what we've got."

Albert and Stacie exchanged a brief glance as they trailed in the others' wake. This was the moment of truth – was the forgery good enough to fool the tests of the experts? They'd know in a couple of hours.

*************************************

As Albert, Stacie and Matt sat sipping corporate hospitality in Blackwall's visitors' lounge and Ash sprawled in the rear of the limo with a newspaper and a glass of iced water, Mickey was picking his way across a stretch of grimy concrete towards Greasy Den's lockup. Scraps of paper, ancient tin cans, tangles of rusted wire and the odd heap of dog-dirt were all to be negotiated; starlings fluttered and pecked amongst the debris. What with the physical hazards, and the heat of the sun bringing out every possible nuance of smell, Mickey mused that it was about as effective a deterrent as could be wished.

Reaching the shuttered door he pounded on it with his fist. "Yo! Den, my maaan!" he bellowed cheerfully. "Open the door. I know you in there!"

The door popped open abruptly and Den's angry face appeared in the gap, rendered even more rat-like than usual by his rage. "What the bloody 'ell..." Mickey pushed back his cap and Den's face fell. "Shit!"

"Nice to see you, too, Den!" Mickey gave him a charming, steely smile. "Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, Den held the door wide and Mickey slipped through. The door closed with a clang, leaving the starlings to squabble uninterrupted amongst the refuse under the blazing sky.


	13. Chapter 12

**Signing up**

The men around her smiled, back-slapped and handshook for all they were worth, while Stacie reflected that she'd never seen grifting as art until now.

In the hands of Jake Henry, her (mostly) unlamented ex, a con-job had been exactly that – a job. Executed with skill and some finesse, but a job nonetheless and, therefore, straightforward and essentially logical. Find mark, rip off mark, leave swiftly by nearest exit.

The con as practised by Albert Stroller, by contrast, was a thing of labyrinthine beauty. Here they were shaking hands on a contract for Mamadou Sylla, subject to the results of fitness tests to be done the next day, but the con was not over. Albert was not about to grab up the cash and sprint out of the back door with loose ends trailing behind him. This enterprise was set up so that the marks would not even realise they'd been conned until their hot new signing and all his entourage had apparently vanished clean off the face of the earth, leaving no trace that they had ever been real. And every one of the crew had their part to play in the whole.

_Albert – charming his way around the circle of suits in Blackwall's board-room,_

_Ash – stepping smartly up to hold open the door of the limo, his bag of tools stowed safely away out of sight,_

_Matthew – glad-handing the well-wishers one final time before stooping into the car,_

_Herself – making notes in a slim black book about organising publicity for the official signing,_

_Mickey – acting as co-ordinator for the different strands of the con, and currently pausing to scrape the dog-muck off his shoes after leaving Greasy Den's lockup. _

If any one of them were neglectful in what they were doing, the whole edifice would collapse around their ears and they'd be left with chaos and discord.

The beauty of the thing, for Stacie, was that she knew with iron certainty that this would never happen - she was in a team who shared a vision and would see it through to the end. After what had happened with Jake, it was good to know that here were people she could rely on, and she held that feeling as a warm protection against the loneliness that still coloured her soul.

As she ducked into the limousine to sit beside Matt, Albert following close behind; as whoops of triumph and victorious laughter filled the plush interior; as she texted Mickey to let him know that all was well so far, Stacie glowed with a happiness that had little or nothing to do with the money, and everything to do with being part of a family.

**************************************************

The next morning Stacie was woken by her mobile phone ringing and was embarrassed to find when she picked it up that it was nine am. They'd had a celebratory evening and stayed up fairly late, but the caller was Matt, which meant that he and Albert were already up and out.

"Morning!" Matt said breezily in her ear. "You awake?"

"I am now!" Stacie pointed out, yawning.

"Sorry!" came the unrepentant reply. "Albert wants to know if you think your friend Carrina would be up for taking the photos of the signing over at Blackwall later on."

Stacie dragged a hand through her hair in an effort to clear her brain. "They've got their own photographer, surely?"

"Course they have," Matt's tone was one of condescending patience. "But we don't want them with pictures of us lot that they can pass on to the police, do we? So apparently Ash and Albert have arranged for this bloke to be unavoidably detained. And Albert says can you ring Carrina and he'll phone you later to confirm and sort a time out."

"Will do," Stacie promised. "Text you when I've done." Ending Matt's call she dialled Carrina's number and waited. The voicemail kicked in straight away, so she left a message, texted Matt to let him know the lie of the land, and dragged herself out of bed.

She didn't need to put on Abigail Hunter until much later in the day and treated herself to slipping into her comfiest tracksuit bottoms and a lightweight cotton top. The sun was already warming the room so she left her shoes off to pad over the cool wooden floors to the kitchen. Evidence of various breakfasts littered the table top and Stacie picked up a banana and opened the fridge door to dig out a yoghurt before heading for the drawing room, which caught the sun in the mornings and had become the venue of choice for anyone who had time to kill in the first part of the day.

Sure enough, Mickey was there already, sitting in a high-backed armchair with a cup of coffee at his elbow and a newspaper on his knee. He gave a little wave as she came in and raised a finger to his lips. At her quizzical look he nodded across to his right, and a look around the door revealed the figure of Ash stretched out full length on the chaise-lounge.

"He's 'resting his eyes for a minute'." Mickey said in an undertone, making the quotation marks in the air with his fingers as a gentle snore emanated from Ash's direction.

"Poor Ash!" Stacie settled into a big squashy seat beside Mickey and tucked her feet under herself. "What time did he get in?"

"About four o'clock this morning, I think. It took longer than he expected." Mickey sipped at his coffee. "Did Albert ask you about Carrina?"

Stacie pulled the lid off her yoghurt and scraped the lid neatly, then swirled the raspberry layer through the contents with a twirl of her spoon. "Matt rang just now," she said. "Carrina didn't answer but I've left her a message. I should think she'll jump at the chance."

"Just describe Matt to her," Mickey suggested. "She'll be down there like a shot."

She looked at him reprovingly and licked her spoon. "Are you going to be working as hard as this all day?"

Mickey folded his paper and picked up his coffee again. "As it happens," he said casually, "I got a job this morning."

"A job? Where? Doing what?"

"Working behind the bar at Napoleon's." Mickey drank some of his coffee, enjoying the look on Stacie's face, which was a compound of bafflement, anxiety and exasperation. He let her stew for a few seconds before asking: "What?"

"You know perfectly well what," she pointed the teaspoon at him threateningly. "Freddy Hall and Darren Duncan both know what you look like – you can't go and work there!"

"No, they know what _Tony Woodhall_ looks like," Mickey replied calmly. "Basic misdirection, Stacie. Tony Woodhall's back in America, they're not looking for him, so they won't see him. They'll see Karl Houghton from Clapham. I've got a nice pair of gold-rimmed glasses, a goatee beard, a Sarf Lahndahn accent and a subservient manner all lined up and ready to go. Besides," he added, more seriously, "Albert's sure that Petersen will arrange a party to show off his new signing at Napoleon's, which means you, Matt and Albert will all have to be there. Napoleon's is Charlie Kane's club, too; if we're going to cross his path anywhere, that's where it'll be. So I'm not leaving you there without backup."

Stacie still looked dubious, but her mobile began to ring, and having to put down her breakfast and grab up the phone quickly to avoid its shrill tones from waking Ash stopped any further argument. She hurried out of the room and Mickey caught fragments of her spiel to Carrina drifting back through the door: "Thanks for ringing me back… yes, it's another sportsman. Blackwall FC… about twenty-five, why? I don't know the time, yet; are you free all day? Lovely. Thanks, Carrie… ." She reappeared in the doorway, texting as she wandered back to her seat, and sent the message with a decisive jab of the thumb as she flopped back into her chair. "There. Done. Now I wait for Albert to ring back and give me the time of the signing and the photo shoot – always assuming Matt gets that far, of course."

"He will," Mickey was unperturbed. "From what Albert was saying yesterday he had them eating out of his hand. And he's fit – you know how hard he's been training."

"He's done really well, hasn't he?" Stacie said. "Despite the predictions of our prophet of doom over there!" She looked affectionately across at the still-sleeping Ash, who had rolled over a little and now lay with his head drooping onto a cushion and his hair flopping boyishly over his eyes. Stacie did a little double-take. "Is that a _stethoscope_ sticking out of Ash's pocket?"

Mickey, caught unawares in consuming his last mouthful of coffee, managed to put the cup down and swallow without incident. By a Herculean effort of will he refrained from making the obvious comment that sprang to his lips and said merely: "Yes – it's Matt's."

"Good. Obviously I'm much less confused now." Stacie folded her arms and stared at him levelly. "Ash has a stethoscope in his pocket and he got it from Matt. Because all second year drama students moonlighting as grifters keep a stethoscope with them when they're living in a Victorian country house that's been converted into a luxury hotel. How silly of me not to see the connection."

"Absolutely," Mickey agreed, straight-faced, ducking to one side and catching the cushion which she immediately flung at his head. Dropping the cushion on his knee he held his hands up in surrender. "Ash needed the stethoscope last night. Matt has a stethoscope because before he was a drama student he was doing a medical qualification. Okay?"

"Thank you," Stacie said primly. "Doctor Matt Diawara? Somehow I don't see it."

"Nor does he," Mickey said. "But as far as I know his parents still think he's doing the medical degree. That's what he was doing when we first met him…

***************************************

_Ash paused at the side of the road and peered up and down critically. "This'll do," he declared. _

"_That bus isn't blocking your line of sight, is it?" Mickey asked._

"_Nah. He'll pull out in a minute, anyway. You ready?"_

"_Primed for action. Don't forget your bag…" Mickey handed over a Tesco's carrier containing half a dozen eggs, some apples and a bag of flour, all specially chosen for their dramatic bursting, shattering and rolling potential._

"_Cheers." Taking the carrier from Mickey, Ash wandered off along the street for a few yards whilst Mickey turned away and began to peruse the cards in the window of the nearby newsagent's. Ash usually worked the Flop as a solo operation, but when they needed a quick result Mickey would come along as an instant witness and medical expert and convince the mark that paying out a few hundred in cash would be cheaper than coughing up the compensation. _

_Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey watched Ash standing at the edge of the kerb, craning his neck as though waiting for an appropriate gap in the traffic. In fact he was weighing up the oncoming cars and their occupants. No Mercs or Rollers – the big silver ornaments above the radiator grille were far too dangerous. And no super-minis, either. What he was waiting for was something with a long sloping front being driven by someone who wasn't paying attention. BMWs were his favourite, he'd once told Mickey, because they had good long bonnets. "And the drivers are always pillocks."_

_Only Mickey out of all the people on the street saw the little nod of satisfaction which signalled that Ash had made his choice. The next bit never failed to make Mickey's insides turn over, though he'd seen it a dozen times or more: As the big silver car (it was indeed a Beemer, Mickey noted) drew close to Ash's chosen position, the fixer took three brisk strides forward and stepped out straight in front of it._

_There was a tremendous bang and a squeal of brakes as Ash let the car's bumper take him off at the knees and the impact lifted him up into the air to come crashing down on the windscreen. His head and shoulders struck the glass in a welter of cobwebbed cracks and blood; the bag slipped from his grasp sending eggs, flour and apples flying through the air. As the car jolted to a halt Ash rolled limply down the bonnet and landed in a rag-doll heap beneath the front numberplate, blood beginning to pool under his head._

_Shrieks and gasps from startled witnesses filled the air and Mickey began his part of the show, dodging through the press of bodies and repeating the mantra: "'Scuse me – I'm a paramedic – can you let me through, please?" The street had been full of shoppers and most of them seemed to have ended up crowded around the scene of the accident, where the driver had now emerged from his car and was spluttering to anyone in hearing range about how the bloke had walked straight out in front of him and it wasn't his fault for God's sake. _

_Shoving past a couple of large ladies Mickey prepared to begin an "expert" examination of his "patient", and was more than a little disconcerted to find that someone had already beaten him to it. A tall young man with beaded hair was kneeling beside the prone figure examining Ash's head and neck and looking uncannily as though he actually knew what he was doing. _

_Mickey's brain went into overdrive. On top of the ever-present fear that this time Ash might have miscalculated and really hurt himself, there was now the question of how Mickey could keep the bloke from giving them away and get the crowd to back off enough for the two of them to make a run for it. One thing was certain - they weren't making any money out of this one._

"_Can you all step back, please?" Mickey barked authoritatively, making brisk "move-away-now-nothing-to-see-here" gestures. The crowd surged back a little and Mickey took the opportunity to kneel down opposite the young man, who had finished his initial examination and was now checking down Ash's spine with deft and practised fingers. "How is he?" Mickey asked, partly for appearance's sake and partly because by now he had half-convinced himself that Ash would never walk again. _

_The young man looked him straight in the eye and hissed: "How much?" As Mickey gaped at him he raised his voice for the crowd's benefit and said: "I'm not certain of the full extent of the damage yet. Just a moment..." Then he looked back at Mickey and repeated, sotto voce: "How much?" _

_Mickey leaned forward, apparently to better observe the examination, and whispered "What???" _

"_How much are you two hoping to get out of this guy?"_

"_Oh for God's sake..." came an irritable voice from ground level. Unable to see what was going on, Ash gave a melodramatic groan and rolled onto his back, from which position he gave them both the evil eye from beneath half-closed lids. "What the bloody hell are you two doing?" he growled without moving his lips._

"_I think he's coming round!" Mickey said loudly, adding under his breath: "You've got to be kidding me!"_

"_No, I'm quite serious," the young man whispered, unfastening Ash's shirt and proceeding to prod and tap his ribcage and abdomen. "Can you hear me, sir?" he said at normal volume. "Don't try to move, you've been in an accident."_

"_For crying out loud, Mick!" the patient mumbled in an urgent tone, "cut him in before he starts examining anything else!" _

"_Five hundred," Mickey said reluctantly._

_The young man grinned. "Then I'd say twenty percent was fair."_

"_Sounds perfectly reasonable to me!" Ash muttered instantly, and Mickey sighed._

"_Okay, okay. A hundred quid. Let's just get out of this!"_

"_Done!" The young man raised his voice again. "You're a lucky man, sir. I think you've escaped serious injury." Reaching down he put a hand under Ash's elbow and helped him to his feet._

_Staggering, Ash glared across at the driver. "You wanna watch where you're going, mate!" he snarled, wiping red from his chin. "I'm gonna sue you for every penny you've got!"_

"_Come on, let's get you to my car and take you to A and E," the young man began to steer Ash away down the street, Ash palming the empty blood capsule out of his mouth as they went._

_Mickey smoothly stepped up to the driver. "I don't think there's any need for litigation, mate. He wasn't that badly hurt, was he? Listen, I'll go and have a word with him for you, see if we can come to an arrangement. What's the cash limit on your card?"_

_Fifteen minutes later, two good-looking young black men entered the Seven Bells pub with a tall, rumpled, bloodstained figure shambling alongside them. Mickey went to the bar, Ash disappeared into the toilets and the young man found a quiet table in the corner, where he was joined a few minutes later by the other two. Mickey was carrying three pints of beer, and Ash, cleaned up and hair combed, was fastening the cuffs of his shirt. Setting down the glasses Mickey dug in his pocket and produced a wad of notes, out of which he counted a hundred pounds and passed it across to the young man, who nodded his thanks._

_Ash picked up his beer and drained half of it in three swallows, then set down the glass and folded his arms across his chest, studying the young man intently. "How did you know what we were doing?" he demanded._

_The young man grinned. "When I was a boy, living with my Dad in Somalia, I had a friend called Farrah who was born with part of one finger missing. When we needed money we would find someone who had killed a chicken and collect some of the blood and tissue. Then we would go to the house of a rich man who had dogs in his garden, and we would wait until one of the dogs came over to us. Then Farrah would put up a great screaming and crying, and we would burst the bag of chicken blood, and when someone came out I would cry out that the dog had bitten off and swallowed the finger of my friend. And there would be blood everywhere and one of Farrah's fingers not present." He paused and took a sip of beer. "We usually made enough to buy our families a good meal," he added._

"_Bloody 'ell," said Ash. "The East African grift!"_

_Mickey leaned over the table and held out his hand. "What's your name?" he asked, as the young man took the proffered hand and shook it warmly._

"_Matthew Diawara"_

"_I'm Michael Stone, and this is Ash Morgan. We've got a friend I think you should meet…"_

_*****************************************_

"So after meeting you three Matt gave up his medical career and switched to a drama degree with a sideline in grifting? Ouch!" Stacie winced theatrically. "No wonder his sister doesn't approve of grifters."

Mickey had the grace to look a little shamefaced. "He sends most of the money back to his Dad in Somalia," he said, just a touch defensively.

"Well, if you can live with yourselves…" Stacie teased.

At that moment her phone began to ring again, and this time it had slipped down the side of the chair. It took her several seconds to locate it, and she answered it in scrambling haste. "Hello? Albert?" Her face broke into a huge smile and she gave Mickey an excited thumbs-up.

Mickey leaped to his feet with enthusiasm. "How much?" he mouthed at her and she nodded, pointing at the phone.

"Albert says to tell you ten thousand a week, which works out to an agent's fee of fifty thousand pounds. Two this afternoon? Brilliant. I'll ring Carrina – she's dying to meet Matt!"

Stacie put down the phone and flung herself into Mickey's arms. "He did it!" she squealed as he swung her round, laughing.

"They went for it then?" Ash asked sleepily, sitting up and trying unsuccessfully to look as though he'd been awake the whole time.

"Fifty grand fee," Mickey said in triumph, setting Stacie down on the floor.

"Well – twenty-five," Stacie amended. "We're splitting it fifty-fifty with Freddy Hall, aren't we?" she added as the other two turned to stare at her.

"Stace," Ash said patiently, "You don't think Albert's going to let Fat Freddy keep half the fee, do you?"

For once, Stacie was at a loss. "So what are we going to do?"

"We let him pay us half…" Ash said.

"... and then we make sure that we pick up the other half as well!" Mickey finished cheerfully. "Did you say two o'clock, Stacie?" She nodded. "Three hours, then – will that be enough, Ash?"

"It's all ready," Ash said. "What d'you think I was doing till half four in the morning – practising me golf swing?"

"In that case, then…" Mickey picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, dug in the pocket for a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and put them on "… I'd better get ready for work!"


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**The Blow-off**

"Joeeeeeyyyyyyyyy!" Freddy Hall burst in through the door of the clubhouse at the Lansdowne Park with a huge grin on his face and a briefcase in his hand, his unoccupied arm spread wide to envelop Albert in half a bear-hug and bang him chummily on the back. "Got your share 'ere, mate. We done good!"

"We sure did!" Albert had added an unlit cigar to his Joe Miller getup and clenched it between his teeth, grinning, as he showed Freddy to a seat. "Sorry to drag you out to the boondocks again, but I can rely on whatever goes on here staying between these four walls, ya know what I mean?"

"Gotcha!" Freddy gave him a deeply conspiratorial look and patted the briefcase. "All 'ere, mate. Wanna count it?"

"If you don't mind…" Albert turned in the direction of the bar as Freddy plopped the case onto the table and began fiddling with the locks. "Hey, Robert – can we get a coupla drinks, here?"

Ash, back in his bow-tie and Gentleman's Gentleman character, inclined his head politely. "Certainly, Mr Miller. Will it be a Scotch?"

"On the rocks," Albert confirmed. "Freddy?"

"Double brandy, ta, mate!" Freddy snapped the case open and swivelled it round towards Albert as Ash began arranging glasses and opening bottles.

Albert set about checking and counting the neatly-banded stacks of notes in the case. "Glad you could do the cash payment, Freddy," he observed. "Thought you were pullin' my chain when you said you could get twenty-five grand in greenbacks!"

"Got the whole fifty!" Freddy leaned back in his chair smugly as Ash brought the drinks across to their table, and dropped a twenty-pound note onto the tray. " 'Ere you are, son – buy yerself a drink!" Ash inclined his head politely and the note vanished into his pocket as he returned to his place behind the bar. Freddy leaned across and buffeted Albert on the shoulder. "Petersen don't care about cash. Got plenty, means he don't have tax to pay. Gotta 'and it to yer, Joe, you earned your 'alf. Thought Ozzy was gonna pass up on it at one point…"

***********************************

_Oscar Petersen leaned back in his chair, steepled his index fingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his bottom lip. "This is a lot of money, Freddy. For an unknown." _

"_Aw, come on, Mr Petersen!" Freddy sat forward in his chair a little. You've seen the tapes. You've seen the lad train, he's passed the fitness tests, Leslie likes him…"_

_Petersen's glacial grey gaze turned to the manager, who nodded his head. "Lot of potential, that lad. Bit rough round the edges, needs a polish. But 'e'll be an investment, Mr Petersen. A good risk."_

"_Hmmmmmm…" More tapping as Petersen continued to appear undecided._

_With a sudden scraping of his chair, Albert stood up. "Listen, Petersen, it's been fun, but I got a living to earn. If you don't want the kid, then I need to ring Marseilles and let them know he's coming back; and I got a call to ring some guy called Whinger, or Wendger, or some such, so…"_

_Petersen raised a slow eyebrow. "Such a hasty man, Mr Miller." Rising to his feet he moved out from behind his desk and faced Albert, hands on his slim hips. Suddenly he smiled like a wolf. "You have yourself a deal."_

_Behind Petersen, Freddy Hall and Leslie Morrison exchanged significant looks._

****************************************

Albert grinned again and riffled through the next stack of notes. "Never hurts to do a little homework, kid. If they think someone else is after the merchandise, these ambitious types like to grab on a tad quicker!" He looked at Freddy over the edge of the suitcase. "Ya took care of Leslie, right?"

"Leslie got his cut," Freddy nodded. "He's not a greedy man, ain't Les. A grand here, five grand there… all pads the wallet, know what I mean?"

"I surely do, Freddy. Well…" Albert slammed shut the case and snapped the locks closed. "I make that twenty-three grand…"

"...your cut, less your half of Leslie's little bit." Freddy confirmed.

"Excellent!" Albert saluted Freddy with his glass and tipped the remaining Scotch down his throat. "Join me for another?"

"No can do, mate, sorry!" Freddy stood up regretfully, finishing his own drink as he did so. "Gotta go get this shindig organised down at the club. Ozzy'll want it all just so, know what I mean? There's certain recreational activities what have to be sorted discreetly."

"I hear ya!" Albert rose to his feet. "Catch you over there later?"

"Bloody right! If I've organised it, I'm reaping some of the benefits!" Freddy closed one eye slowly in a lecherous wink. "I can get yer half rates on some very reasonable merchandise."

"I don't doubt it for a second," Albert beamed, shuddering inwardly.

"Catch yer later!" And Freddy strolled doorwards with a cheery wave.

Albert gave it a few minutes after Freddy had left, pouring himself another drink and browsing through the day's racing results before he turned out the lights and locked up, leaving the clubhouse in darkness. Ash, as arranged, had slipped away unnoticed several minutes before Freddy, and as Freddy's red Porsche Boxster roared back toward London its self-satisfied driver totally failed to notice that the motorbike which had roared past as he'd pulled out of the driveway at the Lansdowne Park was now a hundred yards behind him and following his every move.

*************************************************

As the afternoon wore into early evening, the final moves of Albert's game were played according to plan, the pieces dropping into place to complete the whole.

At six pm, Mickey arrived to start his evening shift in Napoleon's.

At six-thirty pm, Albert, Stacie and Matt took advantage of the Lansdowne Park's superior facilities for the last time. Having packed bags, tidied away books and papers and checked to the tiniest detail the rooms they had used, they readied themselves for the celebration party which they would attend as expected. Not until Matt failed to turn up for training the following afternoon would anyone at the club realise there was something amiss, and by then Mamadou Sylla, his cheery American agent and his stunning PA would all have disappeared into thin air.

At eight pm, the first of the punters began turning up for the party. The guests of honour wouldn't be there until fashionably late, but the junior players, apprentices and hangers-on were determined to extract every ounce of value from the evening. Along with them came Freddy, sweating and cursing at the staff as he finalised the last-minute arrangements. Behind the bar, Mickey's phone vibrated in his pocket and he stepped out of view to answer it.

"Ash? Did you manage to keep him in sight?"

"Glued to him the whole time. It's in the safe at his office, he hasn't moved it. Does he look like he's settled in there?"

"He's up to the eyeballs in orange women and phone-calls. Don't worry, he's not going anywhere."

"Lovely. I'll get done here, then head back up to the clubhouse and take the store down. Watch your back, Mick. And theirs."

"I will," Mickey promised.

A couple of streets away, Ash tucked his phone away in his pocket and hefted up his motorcycle helmet. Shoving it on, he roared away into the traffic, heading for Freddy Hall's office.

Nine-thirty saw the party warming up. Darren Duncan had arrived, as had Carrina, and the two of them were soon flirting furiously with each other, much to the disgust of Darren's current piece of arm-candy. Mickey served drinks and kept an eye on the ebb and flow of bodies in the room; things were cheery but not yet raucous and he was discovering that Ash was right about pleasant service bringing good tips. He was graciously accepting a ten-pound note from a very pretty girl (which he later discovered had a phone number written on it) when a buzz ran through the crowd. The Man of the Moment had arrived.

Matt came through the doors like a movie-star parading down a red carpet, beaming at the punters and loving every second of it. Stacie had given him a new look for the occasion which involved excessively expensive designer trousers, a shirt with an African print and a pair of snakeskin boots of which Matt was particularly proud. Mickey suspected she was going to have a hard time parting Matt and the boots when the time came to return them to the theatrical costumers. Stacie herself, resplendent in a glittering emerald-green sheath dress and killer stilettos, partnered Albert a couple of paces behind Matt. Following them came Oscar Andersen who, Mickey was sure, was covertly eyeing Stacie's legs. Mickey felt a prickle of hostility. Not that he blamed Andersen, exactly – they were very attention-attracting legs – but he felt strongly that Stacie's legs were not public property. Quite what this inferred about his feelings toward Stacie he preferred not to contemplate, and his line of thought was abruptly interrupted by Freddy Hall, who came bustling forward and began ushering the guests of honour to a table and waving in the direction of the bar for drinks.

Five miles away as the pigeon flies, in the shadows at the side of a converted Victorian warehouse, an alert observer might have heard the tiniest of clicks and discerned the faintest flicker of movement as a door opened, was slipped through, and closed. Dressed all in black, torch in his hand, toolkit on his back, Ash Morgan was doing a straight steal. It had taken him most of the previous night to crack the pass-code for the security system and cut this door, and the stairwell it accessed, out of the loop. Then he'd reset everything so that no faults showed to alert anyone to his tampering.

Safely inside, Ash gently re-locked the door to avoid any problems with over-zealous security guards and waited for several seconds, listening to the stillness, before he set off up the stone stairs. With any luck, it should be straightforward enough. He knew where Freddy's office was, and thanks to Matt's stethoscope he also knew the code for the old-fashioned iron safe which was built into what had been a fireplace and now appeared to be a wall-cabinet. Once he was done he'd let himself out the same way, take the bike back to the club, clear the last of the stuff out of the bar and pick up the other half of the money which Albert had left there.

A few minutes of cat-soft walking brought him to the office in question; the locks on the office door were standard and presented no problems. Once in the office he took off his backpack, set it on the desk, and ran nimble gloved fingers along the edge of the walnut cabinet opposite the door. The false front yielded to his gentle pressure and swung outwards to reveal the green iron front of the safe – where the hell had Freddy picked up this antique? Ash pulled the stethoscope out of his pocket and applied it to the surface of the metal. Three or four swift turns of the dial and the safe swung open with gratifying ease. Peering into the depths Ash flashed his torch around the aperture and allowed himself a brief smirk of triumph as the beam highlighted the neat piles of banded notes. He reached down the backpack and began unloading the safe, counting carefully. Only the cash the crew had grifted from Petersen and Hall would leave the office. They were not, as Albert would have pointed out, thieves.

Napoleon's was pulsing with music, giddy with lights and buzzing with inanities. Moving through the crowd with tray in hand, Mickey was able to keep unobtrusive tabs on the rest of the crew and watch the doors at the same time, and so far it had been business as usual. Matt had collected a small comet's tail of pretty girls and was telling exotic tales about his childhood – which, in Mickey's experience, were usually at least 50% truthful. Stacie was keeping Oscar Andersen politely at arm's length and watching the doors when Mickey couldn't. Albert, realising early on that Freddy had arranged for a room to be set aside for card-games, had disappeared in there as if drawn by magnets. The last time Mickey had been in to deliver a drinks order Albert's pile of winnings had been only slightly larger than his opponents', but was no doubt increasing at a steady rate. Glancing over at the table on his latest sweep through the room Mickey confirmed his suspicions and received a reminder from Albert as the latter tapped the face of his watch a couple of times. Back in the corridor Mickey checked his own watch – it was eleven pm. In a few minutes he'd give Stacie the signal to make her excuses and leave; Albert would be next, then Matt, and Mickey himself would depart when his shift ended at half past midnight. Then they'd meet Ash in the hotel and, hopefully, celebrate their victory.

He caught Stacie's eye as he passed her with his loaded tray and headed back to the bar; she followed him over almost immediately, and something in her movements tripped an alarm bell in the back of Mickey's brain.

"What is it?" he asked as he took her glass to refill it.

"Nothing, I hope." She put her handbag on the bar and began fiddling with the clasp. "I saw one of Jake's punters come in, that's all, and he's a bit nasty. I'm hoping he keeps away from Albert."

"Jake as in your ex?" Mickey kept his eyes averted and fiddled with bottles as she looked in her purse.

She nodded, handing over a ten pound note. "I don't know anything about him except Jake called him Toad and he fancies himself as a hard man. He came to a few games Jake was running and every time he came something kicked off. One poor bloke got badly beaten after Toad decided he was dealing from the bottom of the deck."

Mickey thought for a moment, counting change. "It might be worth switching the order and getting Albert out of there. I don't want us busted at this late stage because someone spots him rigging the deck."

Stacie leaned on the bar as though exchanging friendly banter. "I could find Matt and tell him if you passed Albert a note."

He nodded and smiled in reply to a joke she hadn't made. "Okay. Where's this inconvenient individual now?"

"He went in the gents – I'll watch for him while I find Matt."

Mickey found a pad beneath the bar and scribbled down a brief message, then picked up his tray and set forth. Stacie was already at Matt's side, having scorched a path through the bottle-blonde competition, and was apparently whispering suggestively in his ear. A glance across at the toilet doors revealed nothing untoward and Mickey's alarm bell subsided slightly. He kept his pace steady as he went back into the games room and called questioningly: "Mr Miller?"

Albert raised a languid hand and took the message from Mickey's fingers. He unfolded and read it, then sighed irritably. "Goddam prima-donnas. No rest for the wicked. Guys, I gotta go. It's been a blast." Throwing in his cards, much to the relief of the rest of the table, he stacked his winnings together and pushed them into his jacket pocket before getting to his feet and barking at Mickey: "You there – find me my coat!"

Mickey preceded Albert back out into the main bar area, skimming the room with his eyes as he did so. There was Matt, perched on a bar stool and chatting to Freddy Hall. Where was Stacie? Mickey's alarm cranked up a few notches as he failed to spot her immediately, and subsided only a little as she gestured to him from a shadowed spot near the cloakroom. He headed over with Albert strutting in his wake.

"He's over there!" Stacie hissed as Mickey rummaged the coat-racks. "Petersen knows him, look."

Picking up Joe Miller's trenchcoat, Mickey courteously turned toward Albert with the garment in his hands and glanced across at Oscar Petersen, who was in deep conversation with a big, bulky man. As the man barked out a laugh at something Petersen had said, Mickey caught a glimpse of his face and the alarm bell became a deafening siren. "Don't turn round, Albert," he said, with only the slightest tremor in his voice. "Charles Kane is here."

"Oh, God – Kane Toad!" Stacie groaned from somewhere behind Mickey as the penny dropped. "Bet Jake never used that nickname to his face."

"I rather like it." Albert shrugged on his coat and pressed a tip into Mickey's palm. "Okay. If he spots me we're blown wide open. Here's what we do. I'm going out the door, into a taxi and back to the hotel. Call me immediately if you need me. Stacie – give me ten minutes, then follow after me. Michael - get Matt out of here straight away. Wait to see that Stacie's safely out, then the three of you get into different cabs, head for the hotel separately. Keep calm. Okay?" He looked at Mickey. _This is it, kid. I'm trusting you with the whole thing._

Mickey pocketed the twenty and nodded. _I won't let you down._

As Albert headed for the door, not looking back, Mickey walked briskly back to the bar where Matt, seeing him coming, neatly handed Freddy across to the last remaining member of his adoring fans and began to quiz Mickey about a mobile phone he'd dropped. "Only it's a real good one, mate, and I just bought it…" Their search of the carpet and under stools and tables took them around the back of the bar towards a fire exit, where they stopped and glanced around them. All seemed quiet.

Matt looked at Mickey. "Think it's got an alarm?"

Mickey shrugged. "We'd need Ash for that. Maybe if…" he broke off as Matt closed both hands round the bar that held the door closed and shoved hard. The door opened with a short percussive crash that was, Mickey hoped fervently, swallowed up in the thud of the music from the club. "… or perhaps just a bit of brute force and ignorance instead," he finished, throwing Matt a brief glare. Matt shrugged sheepishly as the two of them slipped through the door and heaved it shut.

The street was empty and they ghosted to the corner and peered around. A rank of taxis waited quietly in the moonlight for potential customers, a gap in the line and a tang of exhaust lingering on the air showing that Albert had successfully departed. Following their instructions, Mickey and Matt waited.

Stacie, meanwhile, had disappeared into the ladies and locked herself in a cubicle to think. What she hadn't mentioned to Mickey was that she'd been an active participant in the games Jake had run and "Toad" had attended; he was as likely to recognise her as she had him. Keep calm, she told herself. Walk out of the loo, get your coat, go. If anyone asks, you're meeting a friend at another party and you're going to bring them back here.

Drawing a long breath she unlocked the cubicle door, went over to the sink and touched up her lipstick. Then she threw open the door to the ladies. No-one there. Picking up her coat she pulled it on and headed for the entrance where she paused to look out into the street. A taxi rank, quiet in the silver light. Nothing else. She clacked out onto the top step in her heels, and was raising her bag to attract the attention of the nearest cab when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

"Evening," a voice said in her ear. "Abigail Hunter, they tell me. Bit odd, that. Know your name's not Abigail anything. Never forget a face. Stacie Henry, right?"

"Monroe," she ducked out of his grasp and turned to face him. "Jake and I separated. I'm using my own name again."

"Still not Hunter, is it?" He loomed over her, huge in the moonlight. She'd forgotten the sheer brute size of him. "You're a PA, they tell me. For a bloke no-one's ever heard of and who doesn't seem to be around at the moment. With an agent no-one's never heard of, who had to leave suddenly cos he got a phone message. Shall I tell you what I smell, "Ms" Monroe?" He leaned forward and spoke softly, directly into her face. "I smell grifters."

Fighting back the urge to be sick on his shoes she tossed her hair defiantly. "Rubbish!" she snapped. "I haven't worked a con since Jake left me - I had to go straight to earn some money. Abigail Hunter's my professional name. My client's inside - he felt ill and I found him a room upstairs to lie down. Come and see if you don't believe me…"

"Maybe later." He waved a hand and a big silver car drew up at the foot of the steps. "Understand you know a nice little bar out at some country house or other." Grabbing her arm he half-walked, half-lifted her down the steps. "Let's go check it out, eh?"

As the car door slammed, Mickey and Matt dived out of hiding and flung themselves at the nearest cab. "You're not gonna say "foller that car", are yer?" quipped the driver.

"Not quite." Mickey brandished his evening's tips, which amounted to a good handful of money. "I'm going to say: "I'm hiring this cab for the evening – go down the pub.""

With Mickey at the wheel the cab performed a screeching U-turn in the street as the driver strolled away counting his takings. Matt rummaged for his phone. "I'll ring Albert…"

"No!" Mickey's tone was sharp enough to freeze Matt's finger in the act of dialling.

"What?"

"Albert doesn't need to know about this. Not yet." Mickey snatched a glance at Matt's confused expression and sighed. "What can he do? Come over to the club and then what? Leave him out of it for now. Ring Ash. He'll be at the club by now. Tell him what's happened and what we're doing. Then give me the phone." He glanced across again and saw Matt staring at him, trying to reconfigure his grasp of exactly who Mickey was and what was going on. "Matt." Mickey said more gently. "Just trust me. Ring Ash."

Matt dialled as Mickey barrelled the taxi through an amber light and put his foot to the floor. Kane had a five minute start on them. A lot could happen in five minutes.


	15. Chapter 14

**Showdown**

"You're wasting your time," Stacie told Kane. "The money's not here and nor is anyone or anything of any possible interest to you. I told you – take me back to town and I'll show you where my share is. You can have it, then just…"

"Shut up," he said shortly. "Don't want "your share". Want all of it. And if your crew of bleeding hearts aren't here we'll wait. Got the time."

The Merc drew to a crunching halt on the gravel driveway outside the clubhouse. A light was showing inside, and Stacie's heart died a little. Kane climbed out of the passenger seat, walked round to her door, opened it and dragged her out by the elbow. Without releasing his grip he pushed her in front of him and slammed the door shut. "Deano?" The electric window slid down and Dean's head poked out. "Stay here. Leave the window open. Shout if I need you. Don't nod off." His grip on Stacie tightened slightly. "Radius and the ulna join the humerus at the elbow. Hinge joint. Takes a long time to mend if it's damaged. Walk. With your mouth shut."

He shoved forward again, steering her toward the entrance. Up the steps, across the veranda. Another slight increase of pressure on her arm. "Open it." Stacie reached out and turned the handle, swung the door cautiously inward, stepped through. A thousand fragments of ideas chased themselves through her brain, every one of them useless, swept away by a lurch of terror as Kane propelled her through the doorway.

Slouched against the bar stood Ash, dressed in his Jeeves outfit; shirt open at the neck and bow-tie dangling untied. He was balancing a cigarette and a pint glass in one hand whilst emptying a bottle into the glass with extravagant care. Half a dozen empties and an overflowing ashtray dotted along the polished surface stood testament to his having been in residence for some time; the air around him was blue with smoke. Behind her she heard Kane give a soft snort of contempt.

At the sound of the door opening, Ash looked up fuzzily. "Awright, Stacie?" He waved the bottle in her general direction and buried his nose in the filled glass, draining off two or three long gulps. "Just waiting for the others – wanna drink?"

"You twat!" Kane's voice grated with contempt as he walked slowly forward, shoving Stacie along with him. "Thought you lot were supposed to be the best of the best? What a shower of shite."

The glass missed the bar and shattered on the floor as Ash jerked upright, fists clenched at his sides, lurching slightly. "Leave her alone, Charlie."

"Or what? You'll breathe on me?" Kane tightened his grip a little more and despite herself Stacie let out a yelp as his fingers ground into the tendons.

Ash's knuckles whitened. "I said, leave her alone."

Kane snorted again. "Not wasting my time with you, pisshead. You couldn't take me out when you're sober." He stepped forward further, Stacie stumbling in front of him. They stopped, so close to Ash that Stacie could smell the fumes of beer and smoke wafting from him. Kane spoke again. "Want the cash. All of it."

"Cash?" Ash blinked owlishly.

"Don't mess me about, Ashley. You lot don't do banks, you don't do cheques. Somewhere in this shed there's a suitcase full of fifties. You're going to get it and bring it to me. Then you might get this little piece of cargo back almost as good as new. Play nice. Or I won't."

"I haven't got it, Charlie. I said – I'm waiting for the others. They're bringing it here so we can divvy it up."

"Bollocks!"

"I can't give you what I ain't got, can I?"

"Don't start the clever talking." Kane reached out with his free hand and gripped Stacie's wrist. "Fragile things, bones. Snap just like celery, if you know what you're doing. Just a twist…" His fingers began to tighten and Stacie bit back a cry as pain lashed up as far as her shoulder.

"Don't you touch her!" Ash's eyes were blazing like twin lasers.

"Give me the cash, Ashley. Simple transaction."

"All right! All right." His shoulders slumping in sudden defeat, Ash walked over and reached down behind the bar, emerging with a metal case.

"Ash, no! Everything we've worked for…" Stacie pleaded.

"Stace. What do you want me to do?" Avoiding her eyes, he set the case on the bar and flipped up the lid. Ranged in neat rows were the bundles of notes that Stacie had painstakingly counted and stored there; the result of months of planning and weeks of work.

"Count it." Kane snapped.

"You what?"

"You heard. Take it out, count it. Show me the lot. Think I'm one of your marks, shove me a case full of paper with fifty quid on top and I'll take it and walk off? Count it!"

Sighing, Ash lifted out the first bundle, removed the band and splayed out the notes in his fingers.

"I said _count it_, Ashley. Not rushing. Got all night."

Ash slumped down onto his stool and began to riffle through the notes one by one, re-stacking them as he did so. Kane watched, motionless, both hands still closed around Stacie's arm. Gradually, infinitesimally, she could feel his grip beginning to slacken as Kane became more certain that he was in control of the situation. Ash finished the first pile, re-banded it and lifted out the next. "Look, Charlie, let's have a drink…" he began.

As the words left his mouth there came a sudden crashing of glass from somewhere outside. Startled, Kane glanced over his shoulder and Stacie felt a further loosening of his grip. She took her chance, shifted her weight and brought the full force of her stiletto heel grinding down onto his instep.

As Kane lurched off-balance, swearing, Ash grabbed her free hand and tugged her towards him, and abruptly she was in his arms, staring up into blue eyes that were filled with relief and stone-cold sober. "Gotcha!" he said softly.

"Bitch!" Kane limped forward, almost snarling.

Ash said: "You'll have to go through me first."

Kane stopped. "I'll break you, Morgan. Get out of the way."

Then Mickey's voice said: "Don't move." He appeared through the open door with a shotgun in his hands, followed by Matt, who was carrying a golf-club.

Kane swung round and gave a short bark of laughter. "Party time. Dancing girls are here."

"It's over, Charlie," Mickey said with quiet certainty. "We're not giving you a red cent, so go and get in your big car and drive away."

"Kiss my arse," Kane invited with derision. "You won't use that thing," - he nodded in the direction of the shotgun – "Ain't got the guts, and if you 'ad, not enough room in here. Too much chance of blasting the wrong head off. So here's how it works. You give me all your money and the girl as insurance, I leave you lot here, I ring the police. Once they've picked you up, I let her go. She's not implicated. That's the deal. We can do it without violence or with. Your choice."

Mickey hefted the shotgun a little higher, despite the knowledge that Kane was right – he couldn't fire it indoors without endangering the others. "I think we'll pass."

"Up to you." Kane shrugged his shoulders, then without warning charged at Matt, grabbed hold of the golf-club with his left hand, and drove his right fist into the younger man's abdomen. As Matt went down, gasping, Kane kicked him in the ribs, snatched the nine-iron from his grasp and stepped back, swinging his new weapon casually.

A brief silence followed, punctuated by the sound of Matt retching and struggling for breath.

"Stace, get behind the bar," Ash ordered quietly. Stacie obeyed, never taking her eyes from Kane. Ash stepped forward, closing the gap between himself and Kane by a few feet and positioning himself relative to Mickey so that Kane was unable to see them both at the same time without turning his head.

"Still two to one, Kane." Mickey had lowered the gun but there was a grim purpose in his eyes. "No bookie would open a bet on you tonight."

"Grifters," Kane mused, almost to himself. "All talk, no action." With one of his sudden changes of pace he whirled and swung the club in a low arc, aiming for Mickey's legs. Mickey jumped back, dodging the blow, and as Kane lunged again, following up his attack, Ash took a short run-up to tackle Kane around the waist from behind, using the velocity of his charge to carry the two of them across the short space to the open door, through which they disappeared with a crash.

Mickey and Stacie stared at one another across the room. "Phone an ambulance," Mickey snapped.

Stacie hesitated. "But they'll want to know…"

"Improvise. Ambulance. Now!" and Mickey followed in Ash's wake.

Grabbing up the cordless phone from the bar, Stacie dialled as she dragged the staggering Matt to his feet.

Mickey ran through the door and into darkness; the moon was out, but after leaving the bar so suddenly his eyes were struggling to adjust. Staring blindly around him he heard the sounds of a brawl somewhere to his right and suddenly saw a gaping hole in the balustrade surrounding the veranda, from somewhere beyond which the sounds were emanating. Opting for the less direct route, Mickey ran down the steps and out onto the moon-silvered lawn.

The grass was damp with dew and slick with mud where they'd churned it up in the struggle. Ash's feet slithered slightly as he regained his feet and faced Kane for the third – or was it the fourth? – time. He could feel blood trickling down from his eyebrow and wiped it off with the back of a hand before it obscured his vision. Kane, he was gratified to notice, had a broken nose, though whether it had been caused by the fall from the veranda or whether he'd managed to land a lucky blow Ash wasn't sure. What _was_ worrying him was the location of the bloody golf club – Kane had lost it in the melee and Ash had been hoping he'd be the first to rediscover it, but to this point he'd had no luck.

He had time for a quick glance around before Kane came at him again, fists swinging like demolition balls. Thus far Ash had mostly managed to keep out of reach, but he was tiring and the soft ground was making things harder. He dodged the punch but lost his footing again and fell awkwardly this time, twisting his knee as he went down. Rolling over to avoid the inevitable follow-up kick he caught a glimpse of metal glinting in the moonlight and scrambled to his knees to make a grab, but only managed to get a couple of fingers to the handle before Kane grabbed up the fallen nine-iron and swung it like a baseball bat.

Ash had good reactions – years of bouncing off the bonnets of moving vehicles to supplement his income had seen to that – and managed to twist just far enough that a blow which should have shattered the side of his skull missed its target and instead struck him on the shoulder-blade. White-hot agony burst behind his eyes and felled him face-down in the muck; with no idea of where Kane might be or where the next attack might come from he kicked out with his good leg and felt his foot connect something solid with a satisfying crack. Then the roaring in his ears became a crescendo and the world flicked out.

"Bastard!" Mickey yelled as Kane clubbed Ash to the ground, and had time to feel grim satisfaction as Ash's buckled shoe caught Kane on the kneecap with pinpoint accuracy and dropped him like a stone. Mickey reached Kane as the gangster began to struggle to his feet, and the kick which knocked Kane's supporting arm from underneath him and landed him on his back on the churned-up ground was possibly the most satisfying moment of Mickey's life. Every fibre of his being blazing with rage, he thrust the rifle under Kane's chin and chambered a new round.

"Mickey, no!" Stacie grabbed his arm and wrenched upwards. Shaking off her hand with a furious shrug, Mickey took fresh aim at the dazed Kane. "Don't!" Stacie said, half-pleading, half-command.

From somewhere behind them, Matt was yelling: "It's okay! Mickey, he's all right!"

Mickey drew a long, shuddering breath, and didn't fire.

Kane raised his head, shaking it fuzzily, and focussed on the barrel of the gun a few inches from his eyes. A slow, contemptuous smile grew on his face. "You're not a killer."

"Don't tempt me!" Mickey snapped, wrestling for command of his fury, his chest heaving like a bellows. With a flick of his foot he kicked the golf-club well out of Kane's reach. "Get up!" He stepped back out of range as Kane lurched upright; he'd seen enough of the big man in action to develop a healthy respect for his physical abilities. "Keep your hands where I can see them. What's happening, Matt?"

A ball of dread had begun to knot in Mickey's stomach by the time Matt called: "He'll be okay, Mickey. Broken bones and bad bruising but nothing an adjustable bed and a few pretty nurses won't cure."

And then Ash's voice, faint but distinct, said: "Do us a favour, kid – leave off prodding…"

Relief swamped through Mickey so intensely it made his head swim; his expression remained adamantine. "Stacie, get the door," he ordered without turning his head and, giving Kane a wide berth on the way, she walked round to unbolt and swing open the doors to the clubhouse's beer-cellar. Mickey twitched the shotgun at Kane. "In."

Kane called his bluff. "If you had the guts you'd've put the shooter down back there and come at me, not let Morgan get done over in your place..."

His words were cut off by the roar of the gun discharging into the grass a few inches from his feet and the sharp, metallic clash of a fresh round entering the chamber. The muzzle snapped up level with his forehead. In the yawning, frozen seconds that followed, Ash said: "Mickey. He's not worth it."

Mickey snatched a glance at his friend, who was halfway to his feet, with the highly anxious Matt attempting to dissuade him from further exertions. Slowly, he turned his head back to face Kane. "Do _not_ push it," Mickey said, with a glare that could have frozen vodka. "If it were my decision you'd be dead. In!"

Kane gazed intently at Mickey, weighing him up with the air of an aging wolf regarding an upstart young hound. His eyes travelled across to Stacie, who had picked up the golf-club and was looking determined, and beyond Mickey to where Matt was now holding vertical a slightly-swaying but grimly resolute Ash. Kane took half a step forward and watched Mickey's grasp tighten on the trigger. Then, with a short bark of humourless laughter, he turned and walked down the first half-dozen steps before stopping to level a finger. "Make the most of the head-start, sonny. 'Cause when I get out of here I'll hunt down what's left of you and your so-called crew and I'll 'ave the lot of you."

He continued down into the depths and a shaken Stacie slammed the doors and bolted them firmly.

"Bloody hell!" Matt made a grab for Ash as he lurched to the left and almost took Matt over with him. Mickey dropped the gun and slung an arm round his friend's waist, and between them he and Matt conveyed Ash back to the steps and sat him down.

"Idiot!" Stacie flopped down at his side, shivering with reaction, and he put his good arm round her shoulders. She leaned her head against him.

The thin wail of a siren cut the air and Mickey looked at his watch. "That'll be the ambulance," he said.

"Ambulance?" Ash was slightly offended. "What do we need one of those for?"

"Because you got your head kicked in." Matt said frankly. "And don't say 'It's okay, I'll have a couple of aspirin and get a good kip'. You've got a plate in your skull, my friend, and we need to make sure it hasn't messed with your brain."

Ash waved a hand resignedly. "Yeah, yeah."

"Doctor's orders!" Stacie teased gently, standing up. "Mickey, the cover story I gave them…"

"Doesn't matter," Mickey said. "You and Matt are leaving." They gawped at him blankly as he picked up the gun, walked to the edge of the ornamental lake, wiped the weapon carefully with his handkerchief, leaned back and hurled it out as far as he could throw.

"What you on about, Mickey?" demanded Matt.

Mickey turned back, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. "This is where the balloon goes up. If they think they need to call the police, we're done. You're not a crook, Matt, you're a medical student with an adrenaline addiction. And…"

"Don't even bother to say it," Stacie faced him furiously. "I'm a girl. You brought me into the crew. You feel responsible for me, blah, blah, blah. Well sod you, Mickey. I thought we were a team – a family. I got into this with my eyes open and I'm as much a part of it as you are. So if you want me to go you'll have to start fishing for your gun and shoot me, because I'm not leaving you, and I'm not leaving Ash."

Mickey looked at her defiant stare and then across at Matt, who hadn't moved an inch and had a dogged expression on his face, and Ash, who grinned wearily and gave a tiny "Don't ask me!" shrug. The sirens were approaching rapidly. Mickey sighed in defeat and spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay. Okay, I'm sorry."

Stacie linked her arm through his and kissed him on the cheek. "Apology accepted. And I've got a perfectly serviceable cover story ready," she said. "I'm Ash's daughter. Matt's my unsuitable boyfriend, you're his mate. Family tiff gone wrong, Matt and Ash started a fight, it all got out of hand, Ash fell through the railings, we're all very sorry, we don't want to press charges. Got it?"

Her final words were almost drowned out as the ambulance pulled up with a last descending howl of sirens and Mickey patted her shoulder as she began to sob into his shirt. "It's awright, darling, ambulance is 'ere now, yeah?"

"What's the story, mate?" asked the first paramedic as his partner hurried by them with equipment in hand.

"I never meant it to happen!" Stacie wailed, raising her head to give the paramedic a flash of tear-drenched dark-lashed eyes. "We came over to have a talk, sort it all out, and it all went wrong…"

"Been a fight, has there?" She nodded. "Okay, love, we'll sort things out, don't worry…"

With impressive efficiency the two men went to work and less than ten minutes saw Matt checked over and declared fit, and the groggy Ash safely stowed in the ambulance. Mickey climbed in with him, the doors slammed and the big vehicle roared away, spitting gravel.

Stacie dashed into the clubhouse, opened the case and stuffed the money into Ash's backpack, which she shrugged onto her shoulders before running back out to the lawn where Matt was waiting with the motorbike. "Don't squeeze my ribs too tight," he pleaded as Stacie climbed on the pillion and locked her hands round his waist.

"Poor boy," she teased sympathetically, settling her grip higher up. "Is that okay?" He nodded, wincing a little, and she patted him on the back by way of apology as he revved the accelerator and set the bike in motion. They passed the big Merc, one headlight out, and Stacie was struck by a thought. "Where's Dean?" she shouted in Matt's ear, and felt him chuckle.

"In the shed."

"_Where_?"

"We locked him in the groundsman's hut."

_***************_

_Mickey knocked on the passenger window of the Mercedes with his best smile. "Excuse me…"_

_The window whined down to reveal Dean's suspicious glare. "What?"_

"_I think your front headlamp's out."_

_Dean peered down the length of the bonnet._

"_No it ain't."_

_Mickey walked round to the front of the car and a second later there came a crashing of glass. "I believe you'll find it is."_

_Dean leapt out of the car as if galvanised. "What the hell you playin' at?"_

"_Don't move, brother," said a soft voice in his ear, and something cold and hard poked him in the small of the back. Behind Dean, Matt was grinning from ear to ear as he pushed the butt-end of the golf-club into Dean's left kidney. "Take it ni-i-i-ce and easy now," he said in his broadest accent. " We goin' for a little walk, we three."_

_As they closed and padlocked the door, Matt whirled the golf-club in a victorious arc. "I thought that only worked in the movies!"_

"_Art imitating life," Mickey said, reaching into the Merc to pop the boot. He rummaged inside and emerged with the shotgun and a determined expression. "We've dealt with the errand boy. Now let's see what the famous Charlie Kane's made of…" _

_******************_

The motorbike swung out of the driveway of the Lansdowne Park and accelerated away in the direction of the hospital.

In the ambulance, Mickey looked up as Ash stirred and opened his eyes.

"Did you ring Greasy Den?" Ash asked blurrily.

"All sorted," Mickey said, and Ash nodded, satisfied. Mickey gave him an exasperatedly affectionate glare. "What the hell was all that, Ash? You said you were going to keep him talking, not take him on single handed!"

"Wanted him away from Stace. Seemed like a good idea at the time…" Ash grinned and winced a little. "The others okay?"

"Fine. They're following." Mickey looked up, listening. "Can you hear that?"

A howling chorus of sirens built around them and died away into the distance as a fleet of police vehicles tore past in the direction of the Lansdowne Park.

"Blimey!" exclaimed the startled paramedic, peering out of the window. "Wonder what the story is there?"

Ash and Mickey exchanged a brief, triumphant glance.


	16. Chapter 15

**The End of The Beginning**

Matt blinked, aware suddenly that he'd dozed off. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep; the side-ward was soothingly dim and quiet and he had just drifted away. He squirmed round in the sagging armchair and squinted at his watch – early hours of the morning.

At the other side of the room Ash lay sleeping off his anaesthetic with Stacie draped half in a chair and half across his bed in an exhausted slumber. Matt had tried to persuade her to go for a proper lie down, but when it became apparent that he might as well try to shift a mountain he'd given up and tucked her coat around her.

Standing up carefully, Matt stretched the kinks out of his spine, and decided that a cup of tea might be necessary if he were to remain awake and responsible. He opened the door as quietly as possible, but the rattle of the handle disturbed Stacie, who shot bolt upright with a little gasp.

"It's okay!" Matt put a soothing hand on her shoulder. "No alarms or emergencies."

Stacie sighed, a little embarrassed. "Sorry!" She patted the hand that rested on her shoulder and tugged the coat around herself a little more closely. "Are the others back yet?"

Matt shook his head. "They haven't been gone that long; it's only…" he tilted his watch to the light "… half three."

"Only!" Stacie echoed wearily.

"I was going to get a drink – did you want one?"

"Tea would be lovely, thanks."

She gave him a smile which would have stopped traffic and he strolled down the corridor to the vending machine with a light heart. Dropping coins into the slot he reflected a little wistfully that if he were a proper grifter he'd probably know how to avoid paying two quid for two polystyrene cups filled with what looked suspiciously like milky urine samples, but there it was. He stirred two sugars into his cup from the slightly sticky paper packets on the table by the machine and made his careful way back to the little room.

Stacie was still huddled in her chair, propped on one elbow by Ash's pillow and gently smoothing back the hair which had fallen across his forehead. Matt delictely prodded the door shut with his hip and said: "He's going to be absolutely fine, you know. It was a clean break, no ligament damage. He won't even have any restricted movement in the shoulder once it's healed."

"I know." She sat up and accepted the tea with a watery smile. "It's just that I can't help feeling it was my fault."

Matt pulled his own chair across the room to sit beside her and blew on his tea a little to cool it. "You could say that, I suppose," he said carefully. "On the other hand – if Ash were awake he would immediately tell you that no, it was his own fault for letting us get involved with Kane in the first place. And Albert no doubt would tell you that it was _his_ fault for not listening to Ash when he told us how dangerous Kane was. And I know, because I feel it too, that Mickey feels it is his fault for not protecting you properly at the club. So we are all to blame – or maybe it's just one of those things, eh?"

Stacie, looking a little reassured, sipped her tea. "Thanks, Matt."

He winked at her. "You don't hang around Albert Stroller and Mickey Bricks and not learn a thing or two about human nature".

"Not just for the pep talk, I didn't mean." She leaned over to squeeze his knee affectionately. "You've been an absolute rock tonight. I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't had you to sort it all out and explain everything."

"That's my role in the group – didn't you know?" Matt put his cup down so that he could wave his arms around better. "Albert is the charming roper, Mickey the charismatic inside man, Ash is the dependable fixer, you are the glamorous banker – and I'm the part time flash git and medical expert. It's the perfect combination." His clowning was rewarded by a giggle and he picked the cup back up and grinned at her. "It's fine – this is the hospital where I did my training, so just for once I'm the one with the contacts."

"Well, thanks anyway." She patted his leg again.

"No problem. Now – drink your dishwater like a good girl and I'll see if I can charm us some chocolate digestives from the night staff…"

********************************************

As soon as he had seen Stacie, Matt and Ash safely deposited in A and E, Mickey had flagged down a taxi, given the driver the name of the hotel and grabbed his mobile from his pocket. He knew that even Albert's air of permanent imperturbability would be dissolving by now, and felt that he owed his mentor a full and frank explanation as soon as was humanly possible.

The extension only rang once before Albert grabbed it up. "Michael? I'm wearing a track in the shagpile here..."

"I know, Albert – I'm sorry. Come down to reception and I'll pick you up; I'll explain everything in the car."

"There's an _everything_?" there was a slightly ominous edge to Albert's voice.

Mickey winced a little. "'Fraid so…"

When the taxi drew up outside the hotel, Albert, wearing his long black overcoat, was chatting to the doorman. He descended the steps, settled into the seat opposite Mickey and gave his lieutenant a level stare. "Harry there tells me there was a little incident at Napoleon's this evening involving Charlie Kane and a young lady. Anything you'd like to begin with?"

It took Mickey most of the journey to go through the events of the evening whilst Albert listened carefully, offering no comment. The cab stopped at last by one of London's many bridges. Albert got out and remained silent, looking around, whilst Mickey paid the driver and the cab chugged away into the quiet summer night.

"So you had a Plan B?" Albert said non-commitally as Mickey walked across to join him.

Mickey faced him. "We did."

"Who was in on it?"

"Just me and Ash." Mickey began to walk in the direction of the river and Albert matched his long stride. "We didn't say anything to the others because we didn't intend to involve them. And we were unlucky. We didn't know about Stacie's prior involvement with Charlie Kane, which changed things more than a little."

"And you didn't tell me because…"

"… because we hoped we'd never need to use it." Mickey said. "It was a safety net, just in case. That was all."

Albert nodded. "Okay. So – would you like to tell me now?"

"That's why we're here." Their path had lead them to the low parapet of the bridge, which overlooked a rather unlovely area of warehouses and light industry on the river bank. Mickey pointed with a long arm to the scene of a small commotion amongst the buildings. "You see that over there? That's one of Charlie Kane's warehouses being raided by the police."

Albert tucked his hands into his coat pockets and watched the flashes of Met issue torchlight playing in reflection on the water. "And how did they know to go there?" he asked.

"Kane has a notebook," Mickey said…

***_ Kane reached inside his jacket and extracted a thick notebook bound in honey-coloured leather, which he consulted theatrically. "William Robson, security guard. Not very imaginative, is it? Only take a call. Tell William Robson's boss there's no such person. Bye bye Bill, and arrivaderci Ashley. And if you were back inside, who'd look after June then? It's a rough old world these days, Ashley – you never know…" *** _

"…Ash knew he had it, and that he used it for keeping track of all the various deals he's got going down. Kane doesn't trust computers, apparently – he keeps the book in his pocket all the time. Except when he's training at the gym at Force, the health-club near Napoleon's…"

*** "_Morning!" Mickey called cheerfully to the receptionist as he advanced across the marble-tiled floor. "We had a call to say there's a blockage in the drain in the gent's changing rooms?" ***_

"…so we got some photographs of the most recent entries, as insurance…"

*** _Mickey began trying the doors on the bank of lockers which filled the middle of the room. Those which gave under his touch he left standing open; those which resisted were dealt with by Ash, who had taken three or four small tools from the roll and was deftly picking the lock of each unopened door as he followed Mickey along the row. Once all eleven locks were released, the two of them commenced a swift search of the contents, and it was Ash who eventually exclaimed: "Got it!"_

_Mickey drew a small camera from his pocket and commenced photographing Ash's find. ***_

"… He'd coded the entries, but Ash cracked it and did a transcript. And then I took the whole thing to Greasy Den. Five grand up front, the same again of we needed his services…"

"… and you burned the photos of him with that hooker that he thought you were going to send to his lady friend." Albert interjected.

"Well," Mickey shrugged. "I felt it was only fair. It was a fairly big ask even for Den…"

*** _"Charlie Kane???" Den's face was never a pretty sight; even less so when pasty white with fear. "You're joking me, Mickey!"_

"_Never more serious, Dennis. And as a token of my honesty, I'm going to burn those photos here, in front of you. And the negatives." Dropping the prints into the brazier which stood in the middle of Den's workshop floor, Mickey shook the negatives out of the cardboard wallet to join the blackening photographs, then dropped the wallet in after them. "There. Gone." He walked round the brazier to stand in front of Dennis and held up the brown A4 envelope in one hand and a wad of notes in the other. "Five thousand, Den, just for saying yes and looking after the envelope. Five thousand more if I ring you and ask you to do it. And that's on top of whatever DI Bellamy will pay you when you hand him the biggest collar if his career." Mickey leaned close, the orange glow playing in his eyes like playful hellfire. "What have you got to lose?"_

_Hesitantly, Dennis reached out a hand and took the envelope and the cash._

_Mickey grinned. "Good boy…" ***_

"You didn't tell him we have another set of those hooker pictures?" Albert asked conversationally.

"It didn't seem important." Mickey leaned on the parapet and stared out at the dark water. "When Kane took Stacie, I rang Den and told him to contact Bellamy, give him the envelope and tell him that Kane would be at the Lansdowne Park, with the book in his pocket, and he'd be able to find him there."

Albert turned and looked Mickey up and down. at long last, a broad smile spread across his face. "Good job, kid," he said, proudly. "Even Kane will have a hard time chasing us around London when he's doing thirty years." He glanced at his watch. "Good Lord – four am. Come on," he went on, backhanding Mickey gently on the arm. "Let's get over to the hospital and give those two a break."

********************************************************

A bright, sunny morning in mid-July saw a brunch party at Eddie's Bar, presided over by Stacie. She had begged, bullied and cajoled the reluctant Eddie into opening up two hours early and letting her order in a continental breakfast for six, mollifying him with a share of the bacon, croissants, jam and coffee. Despite his grumblings about "the place looking like a Lake-District tea-rooms" she'd spread a snowy cloth over the table at the centre booth, set out the food in its' covered dishes and placed a vase of flowers in the middle; she was tweaking the corners of the cloth straight when Mickey and Albert arrived.

"That looks incredible!" Mickey said, surveying the gleaming china and crisp napkins.

Albert took her fingers in his and, as he had on first meeting her, kissed them gallantly. "My dear, you've surpassed yourself."

"I wanted to do something special," she said. "It's a landmark occasion!"

Mickey scooted along the bench seat to sit by the wall and Albert settled himself at his side, drew three cups toward him and poured coffee from a silver pot. "Well, this certainly is special," he announced contentedly.

They were halfway down the cups when the door opened to admit Matt, who was carrying a pile of newspapers under one arm. He held the door open to admit Ash, whom he had just picked up from the hospital. Despite the rainbow of bruising decorating the side of his face from jaw to temple the fixer was grinning from ear to ear. "You're gonna love these, Albert!" he promised, pointing at Matt's cargo.

With a little squeak of joy Stacie ran across to kiss Ash's cheek on the un-bruised side, then grabbed his good hand and led him across to the table. Ash slid carefully into the booth, found a comfortable position and produced a packet of Marlboro Lights and his lighter from the sling protecting his right arm. Lighting up left-handed with the ease of several days' practice he took a long drag and exhaled in an ecstatic cloud of blue smoke. "I could get used to this!" he remarked, gesturing at the fruits of Stacie's labours.

Stacie sat down on Ash's left and Matt grabbed a stool and dragged it to the head of the table.

"So…" Albert looked around at the ring of anticipatory smiles. "Don't keep us in suspense any longer, my dear – how did we do?"

Stacie produced a document wallet from beneath the table and opened it ceremoniously. "Right!" She ran her finger down the neat columns of figures.

"Total winnings from poker games against footballers with more money than sense – fourteen thousand, six hundred and fifty pounds."

"Oh, ve-e-e-ry good!" Ash said approvingly as Mickey and Albert shook hands with each other in mutual congratulations. "That about covered the costs, then, yeah?"

"It did," Stacie said, "with about three hundred to spare. Now – total money grifted from the unpleasantly unethical Mr Oscar Petersen, courtesy of the unpleasantly vulgar Mr Frederick Hall – fifty thousand pounds, that being the undeclared agent's fee plus the manager's bung!"

Matt laid a long arm across Albert's shoulders and they patted one another on the back.

"And finally," Stacie resumed, "One bet of five thousand dollars, at ten to one, that Blackwall FC would pay big money for an unknown African player, placed by me at the end of May on the advice of Mr Ash Morgan – total profit forty-five thousand pounds." Chaos erupted.

"Oh, well played, sir!" Albert exclaimed amid the general hilarity, standing up and stretching out a hand. Ash shoved his cigarette into his mouth and returned the handshake warmly.

"Which makes a total profit of…" Stacie paused for effect "ninety-five thousand, three hundred pounds!"

A chorus of whoops and cheering followed her announcement, and she bowed to them each in turn before bestowing a hug and a kiss on Albert and then sittling down to tuck her papers back into the wallet.

"Now." Albert remained standing and the uproar died away as they turned to look at him. "Before we begin this most excellent meal, I have an announcement to make." He drew a slow breath. "This was my last job. I'm stepping down as leader of the crew."

Silence.

"But…" Stacie faltered, "this was suppose to be the start of us working together as a team…"

"I know." Albert sat down. "And I'm sorry."

"Wait on, Albert!" Ash said. "All this…" he waved his hand to indicate the group. "This was all you. None of us would be sat here if you hadn't planned it all."

"The plan was pure genius," Mickey said softly. "A true work of art – and completely successful. No-one else could have done that, Albert."

"And it's been a total blast!" Matt put in.

Albert sighed, looking from face to face. "At what cost?" he asked quietly. "I was so carried away by my own genius I didn't listen to advice. I put you all in danger when it could have been avoided. This…" he tapped Stacie's folder with his forefinger "… this means nothing. It's _this…_" he raised the finger and swung it in a circle, pointing at each of them in turn "…that means everything. This group of people. This family. And in my pride I almost destroyed it. No." He looked at them in turn again, his face adamant. "This was my last grift. I won't risk the people I love."

Another silence. Matt swallowed hard. Ash stared at his plate. Mickey sank his head into his hands. Stacie clenched her fists on the table and breathed deeply, twice. Then she said: "Let Mickey do it."

Mickey stared at her with his mouth open. "_What?"_

Albert blinked, and a slow smile spread across his face.

Matt said: "Oh, yes!" and levelled both index fingers gleefully at the astounded Mickey.

Ash flung his good arm round Stacie's shoulders and squeezed her tight. "You," he declared, "are a bleedin' genius!"

"She has the answer, Michael." Albert turned in his seat to look at Mickey, who was beginning to smile. "That plan B was yours; you pulled our fat out of the fire. You've shown you can deal with the unexpected, you can keep your head in a crisis. You're ready to lead the crew. Whaddaya say?"

Mickey's eyes were shining with delight. "On one condition," he said. "That you stay on as part of the team, Albert. I can't do this without you."

Albert looked around the table for the third time and each of the other three nodded simultaneously. "Then it's decided!" he declared, and climbed back to his feet, raising his coffee cup in a toast. "To our new leader – Michael Stone!"

Amid general applause, Mickey shouted across the bar: "Eddie! Bring us a couple of bottles of champagne!"

By the time Eddie came over the table top was strewn with newspapers, the front pages of which were plastered with headlines detailing the capture of the notorious Charles Kane by the redoubtable DI Bellamy, and the back pages of which were filled with speculation as to the whereabouts of Oscar Petersen's exotic new signing.

"Special occasion, is it?" Eddie asked, setting down his tray.

"Yeah!" Ash lifted off the glasses one by one. "Albert just became infamous."

"With a little help from my friends." Albert remarked as Mickey picked up the first bottle of champagne and fired the cork extravagantly across the room. Matt ducked hurriedly as it whistled past his ear.

"'Ey, watch it!" Eddie grumbled as the bottle was applied generously between the glasses. "And who's paying me for this lot?"

Stacie picked up her brimming glass and regarded him with sparkling eyes. "Put it on the tab, Eddie," she suggested winningly.

"Excellent proposal," Albert sipped his drink approvingly.

"Good man!" Ash said, setting down his glass to light a fresh cigarette.

"Have we got a tab, now? Cool!" Matt lifted the cover off the bacon. "Who wants some of this?"

Eddie looked appealingly at Mickey. "C'mon, Mick – play the game!"

Mickey Bricks, who was all about playing the game, smiled. "Okay, Eddie. I'll tell you what…" he produced his pack of cards from his inside pocket, stood up and squeezed past Albert. "Pick a card…"

FIN.


End file.
